White Admiral
by manic-intent
Summary: ..Complete.. AU. What if Jack Sparrow was an Admiral? Sparrington, Slash.
1. First Impressions

A/N: I originally didn't want to submit a version, but supposed I do need an R version of this fic up somewhere, and I'm bored right now, so… Full version with accompanying art is archived at manic(underscore)intent(dot)livejournal(dot)com. Series was intended to be a set of ficlets with supporting art (each chapter has a piece up, in that site).

Chapter 1

First Impressions

Lieutenant James Norrington peered at the wharf as crew scurried about the process of preparing the ship for disembarking, silently drinking in his first sight of the place where he would, likely, spend the rest of his adult life.

Port Royal. Or New Port Royal, he supposed, remembering some vague detail from one of the recently appointed Governor Swann's incessant attempts at small talk throughout the voyage, the old one having been quite ruined by some sort of earthquake. Certainly it looked quite neatly planned out, as befitting a newer town – the busy docks led naturally into wide, paved streets thronged with merchants, townsfolk, and gaily-clad marines. There was even a reception – a group of brightly colored ladies and somber-coated men, grouped near the wharf that the _Interceptor _was docking at. Fans and perfumed handkerchiefs kept the less welcome scents of any harbor at bay (fish and refuse). Here to see and receive the new colonial Governor and his lovely daughter, no doubt.

Harbor crowded mostly with Naval ships – though near the end of the docks was berthed a galleon that stood out in sharp contrast from the others. A black ship, the furled sails the same ebony hue – and at the mainmast, a very distinctive white pennant danced in the breeze. James frowned, and glanced quickly back at the harbor, picking out the dark blue coats of midshipmen, but no elaborate Admiralty finery.

His searching gaze picked out an odd little heap atop two large crates at the edge of the wharf. James squinted, then blinked as a midshipman with clean, honest features, wearing his deep blue uniform with fussy neatness, marched up to him from the gangway and saluted smartly. "Sir! Welcome to Port Royal."

"Thank you," He nodded absently, his gaze pulled back to the black ship with the white flag. "The Admiral of the White is in port?"

"Oh yes. He's just over there, sir." The midshipman pointed. James looked. No elaborately embroidered blue coats.

"Pardon?"

"The _Admiral_ of the _White_?" Miss Swann appeared at his elbow, her eyes wide and all but shining with excitement. "He's _here_?"

"Uh. Yes miss," the junior officer glanced at James for guidance, unsure as to how to deal with slightly improper and disturbingly enthusiastic young ladies of breeding. "He is, after all, based in Port Royal. Has to greet the Lieutenant, miss."

"Who's that?" the pup they had picked up during the voyage – one young William Turner – piped in. During the trip the two children had predictably struck up a sort of shy friendship, not having anyone else of their age aboard. James was relieved that the boy, at least, seemed to have curbed the young Miss Swann's tendency towards wheedling pirate stories out of the crew – his eyes always hardened at the very mention. Unsurprising, given the very nature of how they had come across him out at sea. Still, he made a very unlikely companion to the very sensibly, fashionably frocked Miss Swann, with his oversized clothes borrowed off the smallest of the crew – the too-long shirt cuffs swallowed small fingers.

"The youngest Admiral in history," Miss Swann said brightly, full of endearingly childish pleasure at the prospect of sharing lurid gossip with her new friend. "_Admiral_ Jack Sparrow!"

"The Luck of God," Mister Gibbs intoned from where he stood at the steps to the helm, in what James thought was an excessively melodramatic manner. "Aye, that's what Admiral Sparrow is. The Luck of God."

James' plans for a dignified arrival at his assigned post were quickly being derailed. He cleared his throat, cutting through the children's conspicuous curiosity at the intriguing tidbit of information from the highly superstitious and theatrical Mister Gibbs. "Miss Swann, perhaps you should accompany your father, no doubt he's been looking for you. Mister Gibbs, please take Mister Turner to the harbor official and explain his… circumstances. And Mister…"

"Gillette, sir."

"Mister Gillette will introduce me to the Admiral." Hard green eyes dared anyone to object. Suitably cowed, the children and Mister Gibbs retreated to the relative safety of Governor Swann. James sighed, and nodded at the midshipman, following him down the gangway, inclining his head at saluting and curious marines.

Still no distinctive coat, hat or wigged person. James supposed that in this infernal heat, so far from London, the Admiral could simply be out of uniform – especially if he had just docked before the _Interceptor_. Yes, that was likely it – they had arrived days ahead of schedule, after all, and it was still fairly early in the day, just after breakfast. The man had probably rushed down in his haste to greet the new Governor without changing. He looked thoughtfully at the flock of somberly dressed dignitaries, and was debating between the Admiral being a very thin, elegantly dressed man with nervous fingers or the short, maroon-coated man with darting eyes, when he realized that he was being led in another direction. Towards the crates.

EIC crates, one stacked on top of the other – the three-pronged logo emblazoned on rough wood bound with fraying ropes. Sugar, perhaps… or spice from India – closer up, he could make out 'Bombay' picked out in curling script. From this angle and distance, the odd heap resolved into what looked like two dangling boots, white breeches and an outstretched, tanned, scarred hand. The sounds of gentle snoring, and the soft mewl of a cat. Some dockworker, no doubt, exhausted by early morning labors. At least the man had the forethought to pillow his head on his… heavily embroidered… blue coat…

Mister Gillette was already next to the crate, rapping at the wood sharply, not noticing James' expression of open-mouthed shock. "Sir? _Wake up_. Lieutenant Norrington is here, sir."

The snoring changed note, and there was a mumbled, "… I'd have me tea wi' brandy…"

A slender man was sprawled over the top of the crate, Navy lace cuffs pushed up to his elbows, gold-buttoned white shirt half open to expose browned flesh. Black hair, bound loosely at the nape of his neck, was in an unruly tangle over a white headscarf. A longhaired white cat sat over white breeches, delicately padding to the edge of the crate and peering at Gillette, then James, with blue-eyed, icy disdain as it began to wash a paw.

Admiral Sparrow was disconcertingly unshaven, and as he stretched and yawned, rolling over to his side, James noticed gold teeth with frozen, horrified clarity. There was a strange pentagonal black compass, attached to his belt with a heavy silver chain. A red sash was looped loosely around slender hips. His mind refused to register the sheer volume of unexpected detail, let alone what it may connotate.

He'd expected a degree of informality, so far from London, but this was a… a… _travesty_.

"Someone's set fire to the _Black Pearl_, sir!" Gillette pitched his tone sharply, with just the right amount of panicky urgency. Admiral Sparrow sat up so quickly that the cat dodged away, hissing in displeasure. Dark eyes were wild as they scanned his surroundings, then he relaxed with a deep breath as he picked out the black ship in the distance, turning his face up towards the sun.

"Good _God_, man, someday ye'd definitely give me a bloody _heart attack_," he rubbed his eyes, yawning again. His voice had an odd burr in it that fit a common sailor more than someone who had attained one of the highest ranks in His Majesty's Navy. As outrageous as the rest of… of… and James' mind was running out of appropriate words.

"Sorry, sir." A smirk.

"So what'd ye be waking me up for, man?" the Admiral was complaining, his voice plaintive.

"Admiral Sparrow – Lieutenant Norrington," Gillette introduced with unflappable formality, despite the obvious rumpled… undress… of his commander. "Posted here from London. You got the memo. Sir. Remember? That's why you came down to the docks this morning?"

"Oh. Right, right. Yer that uh… Lieutenant… Balthie's? Batty's? The replacement… eh…"

"Lieutenant Barnsby, sir," Gillette corrected.

"I knew that, Mister Gillette. Lieutenant _Barnsby's_ replacement. Good man. No luck wi' dodging cannon fire, of course, but… so." Sparrow swung his legs up to sit facing James, cross-legged, oddly tanned hands clasped loosely before him, revealing fingers heavily adorned with silver and gold gemmed rings, looking him once over searchingly, then he grinned, as if James had just satisfied a test. "Lieutenant Norrington. Pleased t'meet ye." He scratched his head, tilting his head, eyes flickering down to the water as his brow furrowed. "Eh, I knew a Norrington…"

"That'd be my father, sir," James said cautiously, too aware of how dazed he sounded. "He spoke well of you."

"An' how's he?" Sparrow was climbing down from the crate, balancing precariously on the tiny ledge provided by the second crate as he pulled on the embroidered white and gold inner coat, handing the heavy outer traveling coat to Gillette. The white cat he cradled in the crook of his arm.

"In good health, back in London," James said automatically, still far too off-balance from the shock of first impressions. Lord John Norrington had described Admiral Sparrow in brief but glowing terms, rare for the dour man, of his tactical ability and effortless air of command, and of the luck (skill, his father had emphasized, his nose wrinkling in aristocratic disdain at the very idea of common superstition) in naval battles that had given him his popularized nickname in London society. The _Luck of God_. As famous as the black flagship that the Admiral was reportedly so attached to that he'd summarily refused, despite the promotion, to give up command.

"Good t'hear," Sparrow said brightly, finally a little shakily on ground level, extending a hand to shake. A callused, dry grip, then wandering dark eyes took in the _Interceptor_. "Fine ship. Yers?"

"My command," James nodded, allowing a note of pride to creep into his voice.

Sparrow looked reproachfully at Gillette. "Was I told, lad?"

"There was a memo," Gillette replied mildly. "Sir."

"That's not the same as bein' _told_," Sparrow said mournfully, "How am I s'posed t'go through all that paper for all these wee details? Should be that ye knows what I needs to know, and what I don't, aye?" A quick glance at James, and a bright, gold-toothed smile. "Though now that we have a Lieutenant again… how good are ye at administrative detail, eh?"

"Uh…"

"Great! When yer settled, Gillette will show ye all that pesky paper that shouldn't really be botherin' an Admiral, Admirals having very Admirally things t'do by themselves, that Lieutenants an' midshipmen don't need t'know about. Cheers." Sparrow waved absently, and began wandering down the wharf in a boneless swagger that was decidedly un-Navy-like, headscarf and sash twisting in the sea breeze – in fact, if James was inclined to be crude or snide, he might even have termed the sashaying hips… unmanly. (If hypnotic. And rather… _no_. James refused to consider that highly random and inappropriate line of thought any further.) He blamed the stifling heat of the morning sun, and the bad shock he'd just received to his view of the world.

"Uh… Admiral?" This was from Gillette.

"What?"

"Where're you going? Begging your pardon."

"T'anyone important, yer t'say that I've gone off t'do somethin' properly Admirally, of course. Say I'm… eh… inspecting the fort cannons. Use yer imagination. Privately, though, I'm off t'me _Pearl_ t'get a proper nap. Now that all the business of greeting me new Lieutenant is over wi', 'ey?"

There was a sigh. "You're supposed to greet the new Governor, sir. As well. We told you this yesterday. And the day before. And before that."

"What? He's here _already_?" Sparrow pouted (pouted!), as Gillette handed him the heavy coat. The cat leaped down nimbly onto the docks, purring as it rubbed against the back of bucket-topped boots that were definitely not part of a normal Admiral's uniform.

"The Governor was to arrive with the new… pardon me, sir, with Lieutenant Norrington, sir." Gillette said wearily, though James gathered from the dynamic that this was a situation that the midshipman was far too used to. "We told you that. Remember? Yesterday? After lunch?"

Sparrow swayed on his feet, tapping at his bearded chin as he thought about this, then shrugged. "Must of slipped me mind. Where's me hat?"

A marine hurried out from the neat redcoated ranks standing at ease before the _Interceptor_ with a large gold-edged blue hat, which Jack put on his head, then buttoned up his shirt and inner coat, looking a little more respectable. No amount of brocade could, however, bury that intrinsically roguish nature – James watched Jack saunter towards the Governor and Miss Swann with bemusement, and dipped his head, muttering, "Should have taken the post to the Indies."

There was a chuckle – James realized with some mortification that Gillette had still been close enough to overhear him. "Funny. That's what Barnsby said when he first met the Admiral, too."

"He's just so… so…" _Like a comic parody of an officer_, James wanted to say, but managed to hold his tongue.

"You'll get used to him, sir," Gillette said wryly. "But you have to sail with him to understand."

"Understand what?"

"Why he is who he is." A pause that toed the edge of insubordination. "Sir." The midshipman met green eyes evenly.

James turned away, watching the renowned Admiral of the White greet Governor Swann with fluttering fingers that recalled to mind an uncoordinated dancer, then Miss Swann, who, predictably, with her irrepressible nature immediately (judging from the Governor's expression) asked some questions inappropriate to a young lady of breeding. Sparrow, however, merely laughed uproariously, then removed his hat and placed it on her head – inciting a delighted, girlish laugh and a cough of mortification from the Governor. The man was a… a _clown_.

But one who somehow managed to incite obvious, fierce loyalty from his men, judging from Gillette's attitude and how the other marines stood around their commander – watchful, wary, protective. Intriguing. Illogical, but intriguing.

"I'll confess to some degree of curiosity," James murmured.

Gillette inclined his head, recognizing and acceding to the extended truce. "I'm sure you'd like to look around the fort, sir. This way, please."

"To paperwork?" James asked, wryly.

Gillette pulled a face. "For the record, sir, I am _really _glad you're here."


	2. Little Windows

Chapter 2

Little Windows

"How's it goin'?"

James looked up sharply from the desk. Admiral Sparrow was partially draped over the windowsill, one elbow hooked over the frame, fingers curled over an edge. The white cat clung somnolently to his head, like an exotically furred cap. Next to him was a flushed, breathless but impishly grinning Will Turner, dressed smartly if a little oddly in a hastily altered red coat of a marine, still a little too large for him. No hat – at least someone sensible had recognized that the inclusion of a far-too-big hat would have been far too absurd. One small hand was clamped on the sill, the other clutched Sparrow's hat to his chest.

"Passably," James gestured with his quill at the desk and guest chair, which had been stacked neatly with three different columns of papers, some crisp and new, some blotched and stained with what looked suspiciously like tea. _Hopefully_ was tea. "I've started on the acquisition forms and… _Jesus_, Admiral, this office is on the _third floor_!"

After pulling Turner through the window, James reached out to grip Sparrow by his elbow to steady him as the other man pulled his slender frame through. A boot slipped, however, and there was a yelp – James staggered backwards with an armful of warm Admiral and outraged cat. Scents – tobacco, an odd lingering hint of rum, starch. Gunpowder. Unperturbed by how his Lieutenant seemed suddenly petrified in place, Sparrow pulled away, dusting himself off, taking the hat from Turner and displacing the cat from his head. It leaped down and ambled over to the chair James had just abruptly vacated, curling up with a soft purr.

To give himself time to calm down from the adrenaline (which had, James would say, everything to do with seeing his commander and a child hanging from a third-story window, rather than anything to do with the effect of the accident), James stalked to the sill and looked down into what seemed to be a sheer drop to the courtyard. The midshipman Gillette, another midshipman – Groves, the name was, if he recalled – and a few other marines were glancing up with worried expressions, relaxing when they recognized him – Groves saluted, grinned, and wandered into the building.

"What in the world did you think you were doing?" he fumed. "Not only did you endanger yourself, you compromised the safety of a child!"

"Now, Lieutenant, is that any way t'speak t'yer Admiral?" Sparrow shook a finger under his nose, his expression archly disapproving. James' eyes narrowed.

"Admiral Sparrow was teaching me the art of climbing," Turner said quickly, eyes darting between the Lieutenant, tense from anger and shock, and Sparrow, who seemed not the least repentant. "Important to being a marine."

"An' I've done the climb lots of times. It's perfectly safe," Sparrow said, flapping a hand dismissively as he wandered over to the stacks of paper. "Eh. I don't think I've seen the surface of this table for years."

James took a deep breath, then slowly let it out as he realized that Will, with the intuition of a child, was still peering at him worriedly. And was, in fact, edging slowly between him and the infuriating man currently sidling around the desk to see what he had been up to before the rude interruption. Protectively.

It had only a week and a day or so since Sparrow had announced that, seeing as the Turner boy had been shipwrecked by pirates and was now without a family, he would be employed by the Navy as a page (a position that did not in fact exist and which James highly suspected that the Admiral had made up) up until his 18th birthday, wherein he would enter the Navy as a full Marine. A small room, previously used for storage, had even been cleared and refurbished in the barracks. Now the pup, and sometimes the impressionable Miss Swann, stuck like burrs to the Admiral almost wherever he went, and to James' dismay Sparrow made no move whatsoever to discourage them – nor even their innocent hero worship.

Calm. He could be calm. James dipped his head for a moment, then walked over to his desk and picked up the cup of tea from where it had been acting as an interim paperweight, which he drained. The sweet, if now lukewarm beverage cleared his mind, and he even managed a wry grin at the boy, who relaxed. "Some of the forms specifically need your signature, sir."

"Which ones?" Sparrow picked up the cat, deposited it in his lap and sprawled into the chair, twirling the quill deftly with his fingers.

"That stack," James pointed at one of the mountainous if neat columns of paper, this one weighted down by a heavy bronze-framed model of the globe. The Admiral pouted.

"Y'sure?"

James looked down again, scowling, one hand on his hip, the other tapping a staccato on mahogany. "I'm sure. I've already filtered out the work that can be sorted out by a midshipman or myself. Some of these documents are… are ludicrously overdue. Sir."

"Should really get me signature carved out onto a block so it can be stamped," the Admiral muttered, reaching up for the first document.

"The point is to read the documents that specifically need your notice," James said patiently.

"Aye, well, if 'tis so important, sure ye could do it," Sparrow said brightly, if illogically, though he scanned the document and signed in a flourish where indicated. "Will, lad, go get the Lieutenant an' meself some more tea. Cook knows how I like mine." The boy nodded, hesitated, glanced at James, and threw a passable if unsteady salute, and left the room.

"A few dispatches are confidential to you, sir," James continued inexorably. "I stacked those on top."

Sparrow sighed, glancing up at James with a hangdog expression that seemed very out of place even in the more casual undress Admiral uniform – laced, instead of embroidered, with lapels, a bright red sash across white and gold inner coat. He shifted the chair back, crossing boots atop it. "Yer going t'make sure I do all this work, aren't ye?"

"You should," James muttered, glancing at the stack on the chair. "I'd get some of these moved to my office."

"Just move that t'the floor an' we can share the table," Sparrow said, reaching into a drawer to take out a book of Naval ledgers, using that to write on, urging the cat up onto the desk. "Since I sent the lad out for tea."

"Only if you move your boots," James said firmly, deciding to compromise. He did, admittedly, need Sparrow's perusal of some of the filtered documents, even those that didn't require his signature. The Admiral grinned at him over the top of the paperwork he was on and did so with delicate grace, boots disappearing under the desk. The cat leaped back onto his lap with a purr. White fur clung to the brocade coat.

--

When James walked out of the room to stretch out kinks, he was intercepted by Gillette and Groves.

"Can we talk to you for a moment, sir?" Gillette asked. James arched an eyebrow, but led them to his office.

"Yes?"

"You've actually managed to get the Admiral to sit at his desk," Groves blurted out, his eyes wide. "That's near a miracle, if you don't mind me saying, sir."

"Sitting down and doing something productive," Gillette added, with a sharp glance at his colleague as if warning him not to engage in further impropriety of speech before a superior. "It's quite… well, I wouldn't say it was a miracle, but it's very unusual for him."

"So what does he normally do?" James asked curiously.

"Sit in the crow's nest of the _Pearl_, at the docks, on the roof… somewhere odd, and plan his next patrol," Groves said, with a shrug. "He doesn't stay in port for very long, usually."

"And my predecessor?"

"Handled all the work except the bit that was really important," Gillette admitted, "And then he'd ambush the Admiral with it at dinner, or lunch, where he can't, uh…"

"Can't run away," Groves supplied with a faint grin, which faded quickly. "Good man. The Admiral could never remember his name properly, but, well… and… the old Lieutenant sort of spoiled him. With no need to do work. Gillette and I tried to handle the mess from… after, especially since the Admiral was so upset over his death, but as you probably saw we weren't really very good at it." Apologetic, awkward. "And even before that, Lieutenant Barnsby wasn't really the neatest of men. The work got done, but, well, the table was sort of a natural disaster."

"Actually it was a good effort," James said, feeling that he should really be kind in the face of any effort at all. "It should all be sorted out in a few weeks or so. Is there anything else you'd like me to know?"

"Uh… no," Gillette grinned. "Though whenever you're off duty, sir, we'd like to buy you a drink at the Red Scabbard, that's off Pelican street."

James smiled, embarrassed. "It can't have been _that_ big an achievement."

"It would be, if you can encourage him to keep at it, sir," Groves said, apparently the more straightforward one of the pair. "The men think… well, that he shouldn't go out looking for trouble – with the Dutch and Spanish privateers – so much." Two earnest pairs of eyes told James what didn't need to be mentioned – Admiral Sparrow might be the Luck of God, but luck tended to run its course.

--

"… an' then they made me their chief," Sparrow said, and raised his tankard to laughter and scattered applause.

James reflected that when Gillette and Groves had asked him to the Red Scabbard for drinks, they had failed to mention that it was also Sparrow's favorite night haunt. The Admiral was dressed only in lace shirt, blue breeches and bucket boots, seated on the bar, heels against a stool, as he drained his rum, relating a very unlikely story involving exotic fruit, semi-clad natives and odd superstitions to a rapt audience of off-duty marines of varying rank, merchants and townsfolk. It was as though he was holding… court, the way he had everyone's attention. A mad king surrounded by the vice of excess, his Court lit by greasy lamps and mostly populated by a motley mixture of the lower classes of Port Royal society, wreathed by the stench of drink, sweat and overindulgence. Gold teeth and the white headscarf all but gleamed in the lamplight, dark eyes now slightly glassy after his third round of rum.

"He tells that story about once or twice a week," Groves said, sipping at his ale. Off-duty, the midshipmen, all unspoken, had agreed to drop the honorifics. "It's a local favorite."

"Is it… true?" James asked, frowning.

"Don't know, with him," Gillette shrugged. "But it's true enough for those who care to listen." A faint grin. "I rather prefer the story about the Maharajah and the elephants, myself."

"I like the one about Aztec gold and undead pirates," Groves leaned back against the wooden chair. They sat at a corner of the crowded pub. Many marines simply drank, with occasional glances at their commander. The barkeeper obviously knew that having a good friend in Sparrow was very good for business – he refilled the tankard each time without comment, with what looked like a finer house version of the rum served to customers.

"That one is obviously untrue," Gillette said severely, "The part where the undead pirates climbed up the anchor and snuck up onto the ship? Nonsense, in my opinion. Surely someone would have heard. Even if we accept, for the sake of argument, the fact that undead pirates can exist."

James left them to their good natured bickering over what was likely an old topic of debate between them, his eyes drifting almost irresistibly to the swaying, slender figure on the bar. Sparrow was re-enacting some sort of odd body language of the natives, and imitating their pidgin tongue to cheers and guffaws. Definitely not how an Admiral should behave, but… it was hypnotic. Certainly it was so to the crowd, if they returned each week to listen to the same story, no doubt with detail embellished differently each time.

He wondered if his father had seen this side of the Admiral. Whether it would affect his judgment. Surely he hadn't, or the 'fine man, and the best officer I have seen' would have had a disdainful footnote of 'of course, one can never account for the habits of sailors when on shore leave'.

Lost in his thoughts, James didn't realize the tavern had fallen silent until Gillette poked him in the arm. "Yes?"

"As I was sayin'," Sparrow said cheerfully, "That's me new Lieutenant, James Norrington." A finger ringed with white gold and a black pearl beckoned him over. Flushing with embarrassment, James hesitated, then cautiously approached the bar, sitting on a stool next to Sparrow, as indicated with twirling fingers, and trying his best not to glare at a commanding officer in front of an audience.

"He's very well known over at Europe – has quite a few dashin' tales of courage in the battle against bloodthirsty pirates, himself." A gold-toothed grin. "An' we want t'hear one, don't we, folks? Say… the one 'bout the capture o' the infamous corsair Reis Reynard, off the Mediterranean? A man said t'be so wicked an' cruel that the very demons of Hell could take lessons from his methods?"

James froze under the wave of enthusiastic assent. Now he _did_ glare, heedless of propriety. Sparrow's impish grin became an innocent smile. How in the world had Sparrow known of the exploits of his career at his previous posting, let alone that particular… ah. Mister Gibbs, in the crowd, was looking suspiciously shifty, especially when pinned under James' steely stare. Something was nudged into his elbow – James turned to see the rather grim-faced barkeeper, who had nudged a tankard of rum in his direction.

Oh, what the hell.

Fortified by hard liquor, James told what he felt was a rather precise version of exactly what had happened, interrupted at times by the Admiral, whenever Sparrow felt that there was a part of the story that required polishing.

"And then they boarded the _Interceptor_."

"An' ye cut down three of them where they stood, aye?"

"… uh…"

"An' shot at Reis, only missed an' winged his hat, an' he roared wi' fury at the sky."

James felt that he really should be keeping a firm grip on what was really _his_ story. "Actually…"

"An' he charged at ye, crazed like a bull, one smokin' pistol in a hand, the other wielding the cutlass that had tasted the blood of so many innocents over his reign of terror off the Barbary Coast."

"Well, _actually_…"

The story meandered in such a fashion until the end – James had defeated Reis in single combat and taken him back to the nearest Naval port to hang. Or rather, that was what _James_ would have said – Sparrow wove, from that, a further set of bone-chilling accounts of Reis' howls of fury and vows of vengeance when led to the hangman's noose (The real Reis had been silent, resigned – broken, on seeing his flagship sink beneath the waves).

James' intention to relate an accurately Naval account of what had transpired seemed to lose focus towards said conclusion, too entangled in the frantic, random hand gestures and sinuous body movements that seemed to be part and parcel of Sparrow-the-storyteller. Hypnotic, a snake before a charmer. The Lieutenant blinked when Sparrow clapped a ringed hand on his shoulder as he finished James' story with dramatic flair. "An' _that's _why they call him the Pirate Hunter."

James frowned. "They do? Who? What?"

"To the Pirate Hunter! To the Luck of God!" Groves raised his tankard in a toast over at the corner. The call was picked up by the tavern in a roar of gruff voices.

James groaned, and downed his rum. He just _knew_, with a cold feeling deep in his belly, that the terribly theatrical moniker was going to stick.

Sparrow was laughing like a madman, winking when he caught James' murderous glare over the rim of his tankard. He leaned down a little, and murmured, audible over the chatter of the crowd, "That's payback fer makin' me work on such a fine day, Lieutenant."

"You can't be _serious_…" James growled. All this had been motivated by a frivolous sense of revenge? His fingers twitched.

Sparrow grinned, heedless of personal safety in the face of outraged Lieutenants, leaned back, and raised his voice. "Barkeep! Another round of rum fer the Hunter! Now, what 'bout I tell ye all of the time I encountered a sea serpent, off the coast of Havana?"


	3. Remembrance

Chapter 3

Remembrance

"Where is he?"

James was surprised to find the midshipmen Gillette and Groves, along with the Turner boy, on the _Black Pearl_, sans the Admiral. The boy held the white cat in his arms, petting it absently as it purred. Memory reminded James at this moment of Sparrow's tendency to squirrel himself away at the oddest locations, and he cast glances sharply around him, especially up at the rigging, even over the side. No distinctively sashaying, lithe form, though. "I haven't seen him all day."

The midshipmen looked thoughtfully at him, as if wondering whether or not to answer his question, then at each other. Groves glanced down at his boots, tugging at the corner of his hat a little nervously. "Well, that's eh, well, is it important business, sir?"

"It seems that Admiral Sparrow has forgotten to certify the _Interceptor_ as a Naval ship assigned to his fleet," James said irritably. That dispatch hadn't been on the desk when he had been sorting out the mountain of paper – it had been under one of the couches in the attached lounge. It had been pure luck that James had seen it – he'd had to speak to an East India Company representative regarding projected patrols in the Admiral's glaring absence, and the man had dropped his cigar, which had rolled next to a suspiciously official-looking envelope under the couch. White cat hair, scratches and some teeth marks hinted at the nature of the culprit responsible. "As such, it looks as though I've somehow done away with my ship."

"Er… well seeing as you've already been here a while, you could, um, wait a day longer, sir?" Gillette's placating smile was nervous.

"Where. Is. The. Admiral," James growled. The _Interceptor_ was not just a symbol of his authority, she was his first ship of command, and he had been through far too much in the Barbary Coast with her, lost men and spilled blood on her decks, limped back to port once too often, wondered if his last glimpse of the world would be her masts too many times. It went beyond sentiment. It was _unthinkable_ that there could be any sort of scandal or impropriety, or even a hint of such, attached to the sleek ship.

Gillette, Groves and Will took a collective step backward. Eventually, it was Will who spoke, in a small voice. "I saw him head up towards the church, sir. After breakfast."

James blinked – of all places he had managed to find Sparrow whenever the man felt like shirking his duties (which was most of the time, despite his best efforts), the St Patrick Church had never been one of them. The man didn't even turn up for services on Sunday – instead apparently spending his time playing in rockpools on the beach some distance from the port (and getting bitten by all manner of strange creatures). However, the sudden twin expressions of horror with which Gillette and Groves were regarding the 'page' were better than any verbal testimony. "I see. The church."

"You really don't want to disturb him today, sir," Groves said quickly. "It's April the Seventh. Just today."

Pushed beyond annoyance by the amount of effort he had to go through simply to find the damned commander and get his own ship certified, James narrowed his eyes. "And why is that? What's so special about today?"

"Er…" the midshipmen exchanged glances again, then Gillette studied his fingernails. "That's probably not our place to say, Lieutenant."

"It's not an… assignation, is it?" James asked incredulously. As much as Sparrow seemed to flirt (sometimes blatantly, in fact) with just about every skirt that crossed his path, James had never seen him actually… _court _any. Not from any lack of willing from the women, but it simply appeared that the Admiral was as yet not ready to be tied down to issues of family.

"No sir," Groves said, just as Gillette murmured, "Well, sort of."

"_Whatever_ it is," James clapped the mauled dispatch to the side of his coat in a curt rhythm, "He isn't off duty at the moment." He sharply on his heel turned to go.

On the way off the gangplank, he heard Groves mutter "Can't say we didn't try to warn him."

--

The priest – an angular, ascetic man with watery gray-blue eyes and a hawk nose – pointed wordlessly in the direction of the graveyard when James entered the modest whitewashed building. James arched an eyebrow, then nodded his thanks, heading towards the wooden door that led to it. As he grasped the handle, however, the priest (the Reverend Dawson, James recalled) murmured "Remember to duck."

He'd probably heard that wrongly. Frowning, trying to permutate a more comprehensible meaning, James stepped out onto springy, neatly trimmed turf marked with white and gray tombstones of varying shapes and age.

Jack Sparrow sat on a sandstone marker in his dress coat and hat (still no wig, though – James often wondered what Jack had done to his wig), his back to the church, facing a plain white stone cross. From this distance, James couldn't make out the inscription.

"Ye know, Lieutenant, I shot at the last man who disturbed me on this day," Sparrow said quietly, without turning around.

"And who was that?" James asked, blinking. He had never seen the Admiral like this – so quiet, still, and serious. "And how'd you know it was me?"

"The Reverend, quite a few years back. Thought I would like some tea," Sparrow said wryly. "He's never forgiven me, I think. As to yer other question, I don't know anybody else 'round hereabouts who'd dare t'come lookin' fer me this day."

"Priests forgive, sir." James said, aware that his replies were getting more and more puerile. Honor dictated that he leave Sparrow to what was obviously an intensely private moment, but curiosity and wounded pride over the issue of his ship won over. Still, he approached with caution, at least until he could make out the name on the marker that the Admiral was facing.

_Mary Anneline Sparrow_.

The date of birth and death suggested a mother, rather than a wife or sister. Sunflowers lay in vibrant contrast at the base. James dipped his head, honor allying with guilt to push back the issue of the dispatch. "Sorry. I'd come back later."

Sparrow murmured, "What did ye want? Important enough t'get one of me men t'tell ye where I was?"

"No, I suppose not," James hid the envelope a little belatedly behind his back. Sparrow slipped off the marker, stepped to his side and took it from unresisting fingers, pulling out the first piece of paper from the sheaf in the envelope and glancing through it.

"Ah. S'pose I could get a quill from the Reverend," Sparrow started towards the church.

"Uh… no, it's quite all right, I'm sure it can wait a day," James said, making a grab for the paper, which was held out of his grasp. "I mean…" He inclined his head at the cross.

Sparrow smiled faintly, without humor. "Eh, well, sometimes I wonder if she'd be proud of her son, runnin' away from work all the time."

"Any mother would be proud of…" James trailed off lamely, again far too off balance, and this time via fault of his making.

"Of a son makin' Admiral? I s'pose." Sparrow shrugged. "Guess I thought it'd would'a been what she wanted." A sigh. "S'pose ye'd be wantin' t'know why I take after her surname."

James was indeed curious, but one didn't need to be well versed in court etiquette to know that it was the wrong question to ask at this moment. "No, sir."

"Ye don't have a face suited t'lyin'," Sparrow leaned, for a brief moment, too much into James' personal space, making his heart skip a beat, peering at green eyes with unreadable dark ones, then wandering back and seating himself on the stone he had previously vacated, using the dispatch to fan himself. "I'd get this t'ye later."

Recognizing a dismissal when he heard one, James retreated.

--

Sparrow wasn't in the Red Scabbard, which seemed far more subdued than usual – even conversation at various tables was muted. Following James' glance towards the counter, Groves said, "He doesn't come here today. Sits in the graveyard until midnight. Day-long fast."

"His mother." James glanced at the midshipmen.

"Guess we could tell you, since, well, you sort of escaped unscathed," Groves said slowly. "See, Port Royal used to be raided a lot, by pirates. Privateers. And pirates treat women… well they… uh…"

"I see," James said flatly, before any sordid detail had to be voiced. That explained the maiden name. Sparrow likely recognized no father.

"The older folk around here, some of them remember him," Gillette said, a little self-consciously, as if embarrassed to admit that he had been asking after private details of his commander. "Most people forget or don't really want to align him as he is now with the silent, pale son of the seamstress that used to have things thrown at him for having no father in, uh, the worst way. When his mother passed away on a seventh of April he joined the Navy and took a commission in Bombay. Suppose everybody knows the rest." An illustrious career marked by ingenious strategy, cunning and unassailable luck. Running away from his past, perhaps – then – and after that, inexplicably returning to his hometown and setting it up into the base of operations of the Royal Navy in the New World.

"'Course, the official version nowadays seems to be between the Admiral being an illegitimate love child of the Duchess of York and a prince from the Continent, to a fey child born of a nun and a merman," Groves said absently. "Don't know where the last idea came from, but it was pretty popular last month or so."

"He only grins when anybody asks him about it, though," Gillette added.

"But he… the _stories_," James blinked. "Here, nearly every night. To the citizens. And I've seen him play with the children of the townsfolk – they follow him around if he happens to walk in the street, in daylight."

Pulling at his coat, laughing and chanting 'Admiral Jack Sparrow! Admiral Jack Sparrow! The Luck of God! Find you pirates today?' A strangely endearing, warbling mantra that never failed to make Sparrow flash his gold-toothed smile. Children with skirts and trousers hiked up to their knees, crouched over rockpools, browned fingers always quick to grab any inquisitive little palms that may reach towards the more dangerous creatures. Staging cake heists so complicated that no doubt the baker would have been aware of the machinations, even if children could be persuaded to stop giggling in the act of mischief (turning a blind eye).

Never any children aboard the _Pearl_, though.

"I don't think it's really in his nature to, well, resent," Groves shrugged. "Maybe if someone did something to his _Pearl_ – he's a little too obsessed with that ship – but things done to him personally? Never seen it. Also, he may hunt privateers, pirates, but he doesn't seem to… hate them. They're treated like any other prisoner, no torture or deprivation, up till they hang."

"But he does take one day off every year to sit there and… think," Gillette nodded. "About the past, maybe. It's really a hot topic of speculation in the barracks." Dryly. "Used to be you could even bet with rumors over braag."

James nursed his tankard of ale as he half-listened to the midshipmen reminisce over card games, and knew that every aspect of his personality dictated that he find a way to apologize more thoroughly to the Admiral.

--

Sparrow blinked owlishly when he saw James leaning on the section of lichen-conquered wall next to the gate of the church. It was shortly past midnight and the toll of the church tower's single bell. "Lieutenant?" Uncertainly.

James held out a small hamper from the Cook at the fort kitchen, and a bottle of rum. Sparrow blinked again, more slowly, then carefully half-rolled the dispatch in his hands and stuck it into a coat pocket. He took the hamper, grinning when he unwrapped it to see a slice of cooling pie. Chicken, from supper. They strolled down towards the docks – James knew that Sparrow had no residence in Port Royal, and slept on his black ship – something that the marines and the citizens simply accepted as part of his innate eccentricity.

"Ye didn't have t'do this."

"I wanted to," James replied, listening to the slosh of the rum in the bottle he held echo every step.

"I'm not angry at ye or anythin' for lookin' for me today," Sparrow continued, slightly muffled by mouthfuls of pie. "Just so ye know. I know how important a ship can be t'her Cap'n. In case those two midshipmen put any strange fancies in yer head. Worse than hens, they can be."

"I know."

A snort. "Yer an odd sort, Norrington."

That got a faint grin. "I know. Sir."

Silence until they walked into the deserted main street. Sparrow finished the pie. "Give that here," Sparrow took the rum from James – the lieutenant watched the other man's throat work, outlined by the dull amber from lamps hung intermittently along the road. When a quarter of the rum was gone, Sparrow spoke again. "Ye want me t'forgive ye."

James nodded.

"Nothin' t'forgive, is there?"

A shrug.

"Can see yer the sort who'd need to feel suitably penitent, aye?" A ghost of a mischievous grin that seemed far more like Sparrow's usual self.

"Be as that may, Admiral," James arched an eyebrow.

Sparrow's grin verged on a roguish leer. "An' ye'd do _anythin'_ I want ye t'do? In the way of an apology?"

As much as he was sure the other man was merely playacting to make him uncomfortable – perhaps to affect his resolve – James felt a frisson of warmth in his abdomen that had little to do with issues of honor. He nodded, not wanting to trust himself to speak. It was ridiculous, anyway, his sudden apprehension – Sparrow's manner about the fairer sex spoke loudly of the other man's preferences, at least on shore.

Sparrow seemed to deflate, pouting. "'Tis no fun at all when ye agree like that. Could be I'd subject ye to all manner of indignity."

"Anything you want, sir." James arched an eyebrow, steeling himself to agree to any outrageous ideas that the Admiral could come up with.

"Ye have no idea what I may be referrin' to, d'ye," Sparrow asked mournfully. "That makes it even less fun."

"No doubt if you explain what you want me to do…" James began patiently, but stopped when a finger was waved under his nose.

"An' then ye go 'bout temptin' me," Sparrow said reproachfully. The scent of rum was beginning to wreathe the slighter man's swaying form.

The Lieutenant closed his eyes and took a deep breath, for fortitude. "Admiral, as you said, I have no idea what it is you're trying to tell me to do."

"Aye, aye," Sparrow took another deep draught of the rum. He pouted again, as if deciding between several options, then his shoulders slumped slightly – no doubt settling on one that wasn't his preference. James watched, uncomprehending, expecting to be told to engage in some sort of suitably eccentric prank. "An' ye did bring this food all the way. S'pose I'd let ye off easy. Say, storytellin' at the Red Scabbard for a week."

"A _week_? I don't have that many stories!"

"Anythin' I want, eh?"

"… fine." James sighed. He supposed that he could really just talk to Gibbs whenever he started running out of tales.

"Of things ye did in the Barbary Coast."

"I _don't_ have that many stories of…" James stopped when Sparrow arched an eyebrow. "…fine."

"Getting late, an' I can make it t'me ship wi'out fallin' into the water," Sparrow paused once they were in sight of the harbor proper. "Where'd ye be bunkin'?"

"There are spare rooms at the fort, it's close," James said, frowning when Sparrow pouted again. "What?"

"Aw… nevermind," Sparrow flapped a hand at him absently. "Off wi' ye, then."

Just as James had walked nearly out of earshot, he thought he heard, barely audible over the waves, a muttered "Anythin' I want, aye? _Bugger_."


	4. Tactics

Chapter 4

Tactics

"What are you doing? Sir." James was slightly out of breath from having (yet again) scoured Port Royal for a missing Admiral. New reports, this time, of increased piratical activity near Montserrat, and requests for help – rumors of a raid. He had finally found Sparrow sitting in an apple tree in the Governor's residence – and only by chance – Will Turner was distinct in his red coat in the garden, playing tag with Miss Swann and a couple of highly bred, elegant hounds.

Sparrow looked down, his grin partially obscured by foliage. His coats were draped over a lower bough. "Things of an Admirally nature that Lieutenants don't need t'know about." He was cross-legged over two thick boughs, a light wooden board over his lap, twirling a pencil in his fingers. "Why is it wi' ye the 'sir' seems so much of an afterthought?"

James muttered an oath, and began rather gingerly to climb the tree. The children had stopped playing – they watched, fascinated, hounds gamboling around them. The cat, naturally, was nowhere to be seen. The truth was – as much as he could see how popular Sparrow was with the townsfolk, and how much loyalty he commanded over his men, the Admiral's sheer irresponsibility made it difficult for James to respect him. Liking him was something different altogether – James would admit to being charmed by Sparrow's hypnotic mannerisms – but whether he liked him…

To avoid answering the difficult question, he propped himself on a branch, face level with Sparrow's chest, at arm's length, and held forward the reports. "You should see this, sir."

Sparrow glanced at the papers briefly, but continued to scribble. "Aye?" Knees moved to push up the board when James tried to peek. "What'd that be?"

"Piracy near Montserrat…"

"Oh, that," Sparrow flapped at hand at James. "I knows. I'd look at the papers later. Shoo."

"What _are_ you doing, Admiral?" James persisted.

"I see yer faster wi' the honorifics when I have somethin' ye want," Sparrow grinned. "But ye'd have t'catch me first!" Placing the pencil behind an ear, Sparrow clutched the board to his chest and, with a seaman's agility, began to climb.

"Admiral!" James' growl of pure exasperation only incited a laugh, and the glimpse of a disappearing boot and scarf. Out of sheer impulse, the Lieutenant shrugged off his own coat, dumping it on a branch, and clambered up after his commander.

He finally caught Sparrow by the arm when the man attempted to slip down to lower branches, pinning him against a fork in the boughs, lowering his head as he took in deep, calming breaths (not a situation he was unfamiliar with, of late) for patience. The Admiral was laughing, as were the observing children on the ground. "Aye, mistake there, tryin' t'outclimb someone wi' longer legs." Sparrow looked down. "Got a mission for the both of ye. Yer t'steal some snacks from the kitchen that be enough for four. Go!"

When dogs and children were gone, Sparrow grinned at James, and took the reports from him, placing them neatly over his sketches. "Answer t'yer questions. I spoke t'some merchants over drinks at the Red Scabbard after storytellin', an they already be tellin' me of problems over at Montserrat. The dispatches likely be less accurate, seein' as the Naval post there don't want to seem incompetent, aye? So I be plannin' a little jaunt over t'Montserrat. Routes, crew, ships."

"Oh." James blinked, and flushed slightly in guilt, reassessing his view of the man for the moment. "Can I see? What you've planned. Sir."

"How 'bout no?" Sparrow ventured, clutching the board and papers to his chest.

"For all effects I am your second in command, and I have ample experience with piracy in the Barbary Coast," James said, trying not to allow any of the irritation he felt to enter his voice. "Sir, plans are better wrought when they are reviewed."

"Aye, well, I'd point ye in the right direction, an' ye can start 'bout huntin' the pirates, as befit what yer bein' called of late around town." Sparrow smirked.

James leaned his weight more firmly against a branch with a sigh. Being referred to as the Pirate Hunter had both its perks and annoyances. He did suddenly accrue far more respect – but being asked for tales all the time, especially after the last week in the Red Scabbard, was becoming annoying. It was only a mercy that no children were following him around the streets. "I meant I could contribute to your plans, sir."

"I knows what ye mean, an' I'm sayin' no," Sparrow said, obstinate. And stuck out his tongue.

"Why?"

"Ye know, when I made the decision t'call for an outside Lieutenant rather than promotin' one of me men, I had no idea he'd turn out t'be this troublesome," Sparrow said cattily.

"I was wondering about that, sir. Gillette and Groves are both very capable," James said, slowly.

"'Cos there's such a thing as bein' too loyal, an' that's what happens t'the marines who start off under me command and are promoted through the ranks," Sparrow said quietly. "Someday I may promote those two, but when I do, I'm sendin' them t'other posts. Mebbe away from Jamaica."

"They won't stand for it," James said quickly, before he could restrain himself. From what he had seen of Gillette and Groves, likely being sent away to other posts would be crushing. "I mean, they are very loyal to you, sir."

"Aye, that I know. See, I've had two Lieutenants before, both promoted up from me men. One was Richard Taylor, an' the other was Matthew Barns… Baths…"

"Barnsby," James supplied,

"Barnsby. Called them both by first names," Sparrow fluttered fingers dismissively. "Ye heard how they passed on?"

"Cannon fire, in Barnsby's case," James said cautiously.

"Aye. Cannon fire. See, I showed him me plans fer the last patrol he was ever on wi' me – or rather, he found them where I'd forgot me papers on the couch 'fore I left t'go t'see me _Pearl_ t'check on how she was goin' wi' the outfittin'. I was lookin' t'draw out the flagship of the corsair Cap'n Alphonso from wherever he was hidin' in the stretch o' islands off Havana. Turns out the old fox was smarter than I'd given him credit for, an' he trapped me _Pearl_ against some cliffs. We'd have had t'fire on each other – could be me _Pearl_ would'a come out the victor, bein' faster, but his ship was far better armed."

Sparrow looked down at the grass, his voice flat as he recounted. "An' before we start exchangin' fire, Matthew had maneuvered the _Seraph_ between me _Pearl_ an' his flagship. Smaller ship. No chance. 'Course, in the end, we rounded up all the pirates an' hanged them, but Matthew was dead, an' most of the marines on the _Seraph_. The survivors said that there had been a vote, an' there had been no disagreement at all. To sacrifice."

James knew he should keep his silence, but he couldn't help but ask, if very tentatively, "And Lieutenant Taylor?"

"See, ye'd be thinkin' me the cold sort, talkin' of dodgin' cannon fire like t'was a joke, an' I never speak of the dead. Better for the privateers out there t'think the Luck of God be too fey t'think of the lives under his command." The sensuous lip twisted briefly. "When I was Rear Admiral of the Red, some privateers thought of testin' that fact, an' they caught Lieutenant Taylor an' six of his men after sinkin' his ship on its way back from escortin' officials to New Amsterdam. Didn't expect that – the pirates 'round these parts don't really like t'work together. There was apparently some talk of ransoming the survivors for me."

Closed eyes, and a slump against the boughs. "Not bein' very intelligent captors, they left a rope within reach of the cell wi' a high barred window that they put all the men in. They hanged themselves, all of them – first their own mates, an' the Lieutenant did himself in last." Dark eyes now regarded James', deep with far too much suppressed pain. "Sometimes I wonder, is it somethin' wrong wi' me, that I'm teachin' the men, or is it just somethin' wrong wi' men who sign up for the Navy?"

Far too much detail, too much sorrow – James felt his throat clenching in response. As usual, when faced with something that he couldn't immediately handle, he said the first thing on his mind. "There aren't any post captains or Rear Admirals around Port Royal."

"Rear Admiral's 'round New Amsterdam. Post Cap'ns… have a few of them around hereabouts." Sparrow said absently. "Vice Admiral of the White is at the Barbary Coast, but ye knew that."

An uncomfortable silence, then James murmured, "There's nothing wrong with loyalty, nor with the person who inspires it. There are many lieutenants, but only one Admiral of the White. And if they sold their lives for you, then we can but honor their choice, sir."

Sparrow's lip curled, and he looked away. "Who wants t'be the Luck of God, when luck is bought wi' blood?"

"And…" James took a deep breath, "I'd still like to know what you're planning, Admiral."

"When ye latch on t'somethin' ye don't let go, d'ye?" Sparrow sighed. "Awlright. I'd let ye look an' go it over wi' me, but then ye stay in Port Royal when I go t'Montserrat."

"No."

"Then ye don't look."

"Admiral…" James took another deep breath. "Just because your two previous Lieutenants…"

"Aye, aye. I know. Sounds a wee bit unreasonable, especially since ye do come wi' a glowin' record an' yer not one of me homegrown marines," Sparrow sighed. "Yer not allowin' me t'be the least bit superstitious?" At James' even look, he muttered to himself, and grudgingly gave up the papers.

Amongst some very good sketches of his cat and the playing children were several maps – Montserrat, surrounding islands, and a larger one that included territory up to Port Royal. Arching arrows, odd symbols and words written in incomprehensible shorthand. On one page was a list of ships – James picked out the _Interceptor_, with him listed under 'C' – obviously for Captain. Gillette and Groves were also marked as 'C' under different ships, and a handful of men whose names were unfamiliar to James – no doubt part of the fleet posted at other Naval posts in Jamaica.

"Ye've had yer look," Sparrow said, and attempted to grab the papers back. James held them easily out of his grasp.

"May I borrow this for a while, sir?" Given an hour, he could probably decipher the writing.

"No ye may not, an' ye give that back this instant," Sparrow snapped, scrambling over the boughs. "I said t'would be just a look, didn't I?"

James shook his head, moving out of reach and leafing through the maps again, committing the detail to memory. The last page gave him pause – there were little sketches of himself, mostly portraits of smirks, smiles and one of annoyance, and one full-body, standing at ease. Pausing, he looked over at Sparrow sharply, then raised his hands higher when the Admiral all but clambered over him, hands flailing wildly for the papers.

"Not fair, yer taller," Sparrow poked him in the shoulder, glaring at him. James realized belatedly how their bodies were pressed together, so close that he could feel the heat through the other man's thin shirt, feel his pulse. His free hand tightened its grip on a branch, to restrain the sudden impulse to hold Sparrow close.

A few more abortive attempts to get his property back, then the Admiral pouted. "Not listenin' to a direct order, are ye?"

"Not unreasonable ones," James said mildly, "Didn't you want a Lieutenant who could think freely with his own mind, sir?"

Sparrow growled, then did something so unexpected that James nearly fell out of the tree. Fingers held his head in place as lips pressed against his in a soft caress that quickly deepened, with nips and an encouraging tongue. Stock-still with shock, James opened his mouth under the insistent licks, allowing Sparrow to explore – flicks against teeth, a swirl around his own tongue, and the other man pulled back for breath. James was all too aware that he had failed to stifle a whimper of protest.

Sparrow, however, had grabbed the dispatch with a crow of triumph – James had brought down his hand to steady himself somewhere during the kiss. "Hah! Mine."

"What… you… why…" James stammered, trying to control himself before his body embarrassed him further.

Sparrow's eyes seem to darken, as he leaned close again, purring, "Need a second demonstration, Lieutenant?"

"Admiral?" A child's voice. Miss Swann. For a brief, horrified moment James thought that they had been observed – but he let out a sigh of relief when he saw that the children were merely approaching the tree, calling out to them. Will held a basket with both little hands.

Sparrow uttered an almost inaudible oath so foul that James wondered which sick mind had first thought of it. The Admiral looked back at him searchingly, as if to memorize his stunned expression and flushed cheeks, then smiled enigmatically and began to climb down. "Comin'! D'ye see our coats?"

James took several long moments to compose himself before climbing down. He ate his portion of cold roast, bread, and cheese in silence. Tried to understand. The other three left him to his solitude – Sparrow instead entertaining the children with tales of mermaids over the stolen loot. James excused himself early.

--

Sparrow slipped into James' office late in the afternoon, closing the door behind him, his expression placating. "Still pissed?"

"A little. But probably not over what you think, sir." James said, deciding that, commander or not, Sparrow deserved to stew a little. He did, however, out of respect, stop what he was doing, placing the quill on the desk.

"So what're ye pissed 'bout?"

"The fact that you don't trust me to do my job," James said, allowing irritation to sharpen his words.

Sparrow relaxed visibly in relief. "Oh. That."

"Yes, that."

"Of course I trust ye t'do yer job…"

"No, and it seems you didn't trust my predecessors, either, sir."

"Now, see here…" Sparrow sauntered closer, then frowned as he realized what James had been doing. "Good Lord. Perfect recall?"

"Near perfect," James said modestly. On some copies of maps was the exact series of arrows, markings and secondhand that Sparrow had marked his sketches with. On a spare piece of paper were the names of the picked men and their ships. "And I've worked out your shorthand."

Sparrow muttered another oath under his breath.

"And I have some suggestions. This route is easily compromised, if your plan was to have a way out into open sea if caught in an ambush at this point on the way out of Montserrat." James traced one of the lines with a finger. "I'd suggest rounding this way instead, or at least sending Gillette and his crew to meet up with your _Pearl_ over here."

"Already thought of that," Sparrow said petulantly.

"Then no doubt you can share your new drafts," James smiled innocently. Sparrow's plan for defense – via netting potential approaches to Montserrat, efficient scouting and subtly baited traps – was of a degree of genius that had astonished James when he had worked it out. A mastery of strategy and wit, with an eye for detail and contingency. Luck was given little place for maneuver – though James supposed that given the secrecy with which Sparrow planned his patrols, his eccentricity and the way he encouraged his personal air of mystery, it was easy to see why he had retained his nickname. The focus was – as with other exploits that James had heard of – reducing casualties, and cunning, rather than an outright display of Naval might. In the space of one short afternoon, Sparrow had earned James' respect – along with something more indefinable that the Lieutenant did not, at the moment, want to consider.

"Please have a seat, sir."

"I should'a promoted Gillette," Sparrow muttered, but he slouched into the free chair.


	5. Others

5

Others

"Lieutenant!"

"What?"

"Wot?"

Marines and James alike stared in disbelief at the scallywag lounging in the battered sloop, who had echoed James' answer to Gillette's call. He had a face that had likely been a heartbreaker in his youth, now weathered by the sun and exposure, hair in a wild tangle under a lopsided tricorne hat. Gray vest and white shirt were discolored and patched, and bucket boots had a deep slash over one hem. Pistols and cutlass had been surrendered. Said scallywag was in irons – and absolutely unperturbed – he grinned when Gillette came to a huffing stop next to the small ship. "Aye, still midshipman? What 'bout Theo?"

"Here, sir," Groves appeared at Gillette's shoulder, equally out of breath. "You know what the Admiral would do if he promoted us. We don't want to be reassigned."

"Explain," James said sharply. The stress of the past week and a half was taking its toll. Months of patrols and raids on pirate strongholds had passed with only minor hitches. Sparrow had even (if grudgingly) begun to vet plans with James beforehand – though usually, all that James could contribute was to polish up rough edges. Privateers had been pushed back to Havana and Saint Clemens, to the point that Sparrow was actually beginning to feel a little bored, cruising about the open sea with nothing to do. No mention had been made from either side of the intimate moment on the apple tree.

Then disaster had struck – a bad storm near Georgetown had separated Gillette's _Assailant_ from the fleet, and it had been badly damaged. While attempting to find their bearings, a group of Spanish privateers had happened on the Navy ship. A very bloody ransom note had been delivered to Sparrow at Port Royal – James had watched dark eyes become icy with fury. His men, for himself. James had thought of seven men with broken necks in a pirate cell, and wondered if he'd ever see the midshipman alive again.

Sparrow had been too quiet through the day – James felt that he really should have suspected something. The next day found the Admiral – and a sloop – conspicuously missing, and the fort had instantly been thrown into disarray. They had arrived at the coordinates provided in the note too late – despite taking the _Pearl_ and the _Interceptor_. No Sparrow, no privateers – only the damaged _Assailant_ and its shackled, beaten crew feverish from exposure. James wasn't even sure how Sparrow had made it to the area before the two fastest ships in the fleet, despite his head start.

It had been a week and a half since then, and James' sleep was plagued with bad dreams of bloodied, barely-human heaps. Searches, a dragnet, and investigations in all possible ports of call had come up with nothing. He could tell that he wasn't the only one. Gillette and Groves looked exhausted – but they were all smiles at the sight of the lounging man in the small ship. Overwhelming relief. Groves took the keys to the shackles from James, and unlocked the man's wrists. "Sorry about that, sir."

"S'all right. An' since I've more or less already blown me cover, ye might as well introduce me."

Gillette turned to James. "Lieutenant Norrington, meet Lieutenant 'Bootstrap' Turner. One of the Caribbean's best kept secrets, and the source of much of the confidential information about piratical movements about these parts. Last seen as a pirate officer in Captain Barbossa's crew…"

"_What_?" James' voice rose. There were gasps from observing marines. Then he recalled Sparrow having mentioned, a while ago, something about having _three_ lieutenants. _A story for another day_…

Sparrow always seemed to know, uncannily, what his opponents planned. Where they were, where they were based, how they could be supplying themselves, where they would strike next. It wasn't perfect, and he'd seen some misjudgments (though all quickly circumvented with quick wit), but otherwise, everybody seemed to have attributed it to luck. Divine providence. It did wonders for morale – sometimes James even found the effect on the men frightening. If ever ordered by the Admiral to steer their ships into gutting reefs, they would likely have done so without hesitation.

Outside lieutenants. Then this?

'Bootstrap' Turner. He knew a Turner…

"Oh, yer the Pirate Hunter, eh? Ye've been makin' a name for yerself around the pirates. Pleased t'meet ye," Turner said cheerfully. "I'd shake yer hand in a mo'."

"We're really glad to see you, sir, but…" Gillette's voice trailed off. "You just _left_? Like that?"

"Can't bloody stay put now, can I, when I heard wot happened?" Turner had climbed up onto the docks. "They be holding an auction for Jack in Tortuga in a month or so. Open for biddin', any corsair that cares t'get his hands on the Luck of God. Barbossa had sent me to go check for authenticity, but word 'bout these parts was that the Navy be in a right panic. So I didn't bother t'waste time. Jack would be right pissed wi' me when he finds out I've blown me cover, but I set Jim up t'take me place…" Turner blinked slowly, and staggered back, when he saw a wide-eyed Will step forward from behind James. "_William_?"

Will froze for a moment, then fled, towards the fort. Gillette put a hand on Turner's shoulder to steady him, but the Lieutenant shrugged it off. "He's supposed t'be in London! Where's Selene? Don't tell me she's here!"

"Sorry, sir." Groves said quietly. Turner looked searchingly at their faces, then abruptly sat down, on the docks.

"Ah." A deep sigh, and long, measured breaths, his shoulders trembling, then his jaw firmed. Quiet now, all his previous sense of amusement at the situation leeched away. "Suppose I should sort that mess out later. Most importantly, we'd best all be getting t'Tortuga."

--

Cleaned up, shaved, and back in a Lieutenant's uniform, Turner looked like a totally different person – though he slouched, and he walked with the rolling gait of a common sailor, spoke with the same burr as Sparrow. None of the marines in Port Royal seemed to recall him other than Gillette and Groves – reassigned, apparently, so as to protect one of Sparrow's best kept secrets. Will was in hiding, but James had seen Turner entrust an envelope to Miss Swann, when told that she was the boy's best friend.

"I'd take the _Pearl_, if that's all right with ye," Turner told him, from where they were laying last minute plans at James' desk, over a large map.

"I'm more comfortable on the _Interceptor_," James nodded. Turner was scrupulously quick to vet every single decision with James, as if trying to gauge him – or not to offend him. He smiled, a little wryly. Even the issue of address had been tricky – eventually, both had simply agreed to call the other by surnames. "Technically, you outrank me, Turner. As First Lieutenant. You don't have to check everything with me."

"Aye, but I'd feel a right fool hearin' ye call me sir," Turner said dryly. "Seein' as I just spent the last decade or so of me life bein' a pirate."

"Only technically," James replied, prodding the marked pirate port. "Strange how the Admiral always let this place be."

"The last free port," Turner murmured. "Aye. He liked the idea. Besides, it makes it easier t'keep tabs on piracy in the Caribbees when there be a single preferred port of call. Settin' up and developin' connections be easier in a place closer t'Port Royal – otherwise, the port of call would likely have been North Carolina. Farther from here."

"We got men to look around Tortuga, quietly," James said, frowning. "It was the first place we looked."

"Aye, well, a marine could look a dozen years in Tortuga an' not find a hair of the Admiral. Place has more hidin' places than a rabbit warren."

"So we'd be taking a squadron?" James grimaced. "It'd be very visible. They may execute him."

"Then wot'd ye suggest?"

"Just the _Pearl_ and the _Interceptor_. We'd hide here… and enter Tortuga disguised. How long before word gets out that you've… defected?"

"Probably not for a while. Barbossa wasn't that interested in the auction – he's plannin' another trip t'the Indies. So he won't be checkin' on me for a time, an' he don't keep spies in Port Royal. Other than me, that is."

"So you can take us around Tortuga as fresh recruits?"

"Sorry t'say this, Norrington, but yer face is a little well known 'bout here," Turner grinned. "An' ye really should'a said this 'fore I shaved. Though I suppose if yer amenable to a bit of paint and some spirit gum…"

"I'm aware that the chosen men would all need to be disguised appropriately," James said dryly.

"And ye'll all talk wrong, walk wrong. But I s'pose it could work."

--

The marked location was a brothel, near the outskirts of Tortuga. The madame had flounced down garishly painted stairs in outrage when they had forcibly entered. "We're closed," she said shrilly, then gasped when James pointed a pistol at her.

"Very diplomatic," Turner muttered.

"I'm an impatient man," James admitted. "Gillette, Groves. Get the men to spread out. Search and secure the premises."

"Sir!" The midshipmen saluted.

"_Navy_!" some of the insufficiently clad girls squeaked. The madame wailed, and took a step towards them, her hands outstretched beseechingly.

"We knew there was somethin' funny goin' on! When Marshall said he'd be usin' the storage area an' no one was t'come down! T'wasn't our fault, we had nothin' t'do wi' it! An' then two days ago there were all those terrible sounds… gunshots an' screams…"

"_Where is the storage area_?" The lady quailed under the sudden look of icy fury that James directed at her, then scurried down the stairs and into one of the rooms. A large carpet was twitched aside to show a trapdoor. Pulled open, James could only see a flight of stairs heading into darkness. "A light."

A candleholder was lit and pushed into his hands by a marine. James descended, followed closely by Turner. The stench of blood and death assailed his senses, and did nothing to dispel the dread within him. Near the bottom, he tripped over the prone form of a man – Turner grabbed his arm to steady him. He took in bound long hair for a crystalline moment of horror, then let out a breath when Turner pushed the body over with a foot. Not Sparrow. A gunshot wound through the head. Turner whistled under his breath.

The storage area was a corridor with five adjoining rooms. At the end, it branched into two more routes. A bloody maze, ventilated badly by shafts up to the surface. Sparrow might be running out of time, even if he was still alive. "We'd better get some more men down here, and split up."

Turner opened his mouth to say that he was going with him, then seemed to perceive something in James' expression. He nodded, turned, and started calling for men to bring down more lights. James stalked off down the corridor, occasionally stepping over still bodies. It seemed like a fight had broken out between differing pirate crews. Even with a sleeve from stolen buccaneer clothing pressed to his nose, the stench was nearly overpowering. Behind him, he could hear Turner efficiently deploying the men to search the rooms. He picked one branch of the corridor, and stalked down it, listening carefully, glancing at the ground. A blood trail, and footprints of an appropriate size, occasionally, that smudged crimson pools.

Groans behind some doors, which he ignored – wrong pitch, wrong tone. The candle illuminated dried blood, rust-hued.

Following that took him up an incline, and finally to a room with an open door, where the air seemed fresher. A room with a larger shaft for ventilation, then. A rasping, familiar voice warned, "I have a gun."

"Admiral." The relief was so great that James had to lean briefly against a grimy wall, and exhale. His eyes stung.

"James?" Uncomprehending. Disbelieving. Odd. First names.

James steeled himself for horror as he stepped into the room. Sparrow was backed into a corner, under the airshaft, thinner, his brocade coat in tatters, clothes liberally splashed crimson. One leg was a bloody mess, despite what looked like rudimentary attempts at first aid, and he seemed to be favoring a side. Broken ribs, perhaps. Hands were white-knuckled over the pistol handle, the finger with the black pearl ring bent at an unnatural angle. A candle was lit beside him, the wax solidifying beneath it. Four stubs beside it. An open rectangular box, packets of what looked like rations, a bottle of water, ammunition. An open-mouthed expression of relief-astonishment-exhaustion was quickly smoothed away into an impish smirk, ruined by the split lip and the bruised cheek. "What took ye so long? By the way, that beard an' moustache is terribly fake. An' that paint don't go well wi' yer eyes."

"They…" James saw red for a moment, then closed his eyes, controlling his fury.

"It's not as bad as it looks, an' it could'a been worse," Sparrow said quietly, then cocked his head at the distant, approaching sound of measured footsteps used to a parade ground. His voice raised a little, and changed pitch. "Other people's blood, Lieutenant. An' ye don't need t'help me up, I'm just fine." Dark eyes spoke a silent command.

James ignored it, putting the pistol in his belt, and knelt down on the ground, placing the candleholder to a side, whispering, "I'm carrying you."

"Do that and I shoot," Sparrow said in a low tone, and pressed the cold muzzle of the gun against James' forehead. His eyes were startlingly clear, although flushed cheeks hinted at the onset of fever. "Help me up. But don't make it look like it's because I can't walk."

"Why?" James growled. "You'll only hurt yourself further."

"Ever been a talisman, Lieutenant?" Sparrow smiled faintly, with no humor.

James bowed his head. He understood.

--

Through what seemed like sheer force of will, Sparrow had been conscious in the entire painful journey back to the _Black Pearl_, his flamboyant account of how he had escaped and incited three differing pirate crews to squabble so lethally interspersed by loud complaints that he was being unnecessarily babied by his lieutenants. A sharp glance at the ship's doctor aboard the black ship had silenced the man's comment, and, in the captain's cabin, alone with only the lieutenants and the doctor, Sparrow had finally fainted. The trip from the brothel to the waiting ships had been the longest of any in James' life.

"We'd take turns," the First Lieutenant had said, watching with twitching fingers as the doctor cut away filthy breeches to inspect the leg. James nodded. "Unless you want t'go back t'the _Interceptor_."

"I'll have Gillette and Groves draw straws to see who captains her," James said, aware that his voice had a distinct tremor. His fingers curled and uncurled, when he wasn't paying attention.

"I'll go speak t'the men." Turner patted him on the arm. "And take the next watch. Doubt you'd be able to lie to them and say wot he'd want us t'say."

"Insanity," James muttered, watching the doctor begin to painstakingly clean the wound on the leg. Two wounds. Gunshot, and a stab.

"Aye. But the Luck of God isn't s'posed t'seem human. Supposed t'be fey, untouchable. Somethin' transcendin' mortality." Turner said quietly. "The morale of the men in the Caribbean depends on that, as well as a lot of other issues – the extent of piracy, relations with the Crown an' the East India Company, the merchant economy 'round these parts… an' he knows it. He's been in scrapes like this before – though perhaps none so grave – an' each time he's injured, he never shows it. I've seen him walk in his funny way wi' injuries that should'a left any other man temporarily crippled."

James could only begin to comprehend the weight of responsibility shaped by a moniker that sat on shoulders that seemed, in the staining sheets, too frail for it. "You speak to the men." He pulled out Sparrow's chair at the cluttered desk, and slumped in it, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

A nod. "I'd get some tea when I'm done."


	6. Returns

Author's note: There was a story I've read somewhere (Chicken Soup for the soul?) about the starfish, so it is not mine.

6

Returns

Sparrow regained consciousness on the last leg of the voyage back to Port Royal. James was called from the helm of the black ship, leaving it to Gillette. The Admiral was loosely draped in a new, spare dress coat from his wardrobe, chest liberally bandaged. The marks of old scars pale against tanned skin, without his shirt. The sheets were pulled up to hips, and he was propped up in the bed by fluffy pillows. Turner sat on the chair. James, at a little wave, on the edge of the bed.

Sparrow glanced at Turner first. "That's a decade of work put t'waste."

Turner snorted, not the least disturbed by the note of censure. "Sorry, Admiral." A drawl. Then, more quietly, "I saw me son. Thanks."

"Aye. Gave me quite a start, when he arrived off the _Interceptor_. Took him in. Owed you that, at least." Quietly. "I should never have agreed t'ye goin' t'cover, wi' a family about."

"I was the only one ye trusted enough at the time, an' I'd have done it again if I had to," Turner glanced at his fingers. "We'd have lost a lot more men wi'out information."

"Jim?"

"They don't suspect we have anythin' t'do wi' each other. He'd be the one t'find evidence of me defection first. Could be he'll be promoted, Jack." A glance at James, then a wry correction. "I mean, Admiral."

"Awlright," Sparrow nodded, ignoring the exchange. "The others?"

"Still in place. I hear Frank wants out next year, though. Met a nice girl."

"Get Gillette to send him the letter," Sparrow waved absently. "Commission him to Montserrat."

James followed the dialogue silently. What Turner did was, despite his rather cavalier attitude towards the Admiral – simply yet another form of self-sacrifice. An easy familiarity that hadn't eroded with time – it made him a little uneasy.

"Aye, Admiral."

"Talk t'Will yet, Bootstrap?"

"Didn't get a chance to. Had t'come pull yer arse out of the fire, sir," Turner said dryly.

"Want me t'talk t'him?"

"I can handle me own son, sir," Turner shrugged, though his lips thinned. Worry, perhaps.

"Awlright," Sparrow closed his eyes briefly, and then he grinned. "Norrington."

"Yes?"

"Bootstrap here, did he fill ye in on the details?"

"Of your informants? Briefly. You never told me, sir." Mild reproach.

"Aye, I would have, given a few more months. Very few people know. Safer, that way."

"How did you really get free from your cell and get armed?" James asked, deciding not to get into an argument with Sparrow when the other man was so wounded. "Your story seemed quite unlikely, sir."

"Aye, and given mebbe a few days of it bein' spread around town, it'd become even more so," Sparrow smirked briefly, then sobered. "But t'make up for keeping secrets from ye, well, I have… agents, in Tortuga. Naturally. One of them got a whiff of me whereabouts a couple of days or so 'fore ye arrived. The pirates put me in a cell wi' a small window. Supposed t'be some sort o' subtle torture, I think. He managed t'get a pistol through, an' a kit. Ammunition, first aid, lockpicks, some food an' water. Dagger. Shot the guard when he came in t'feed me wi' crusts, freed meself wi' keys, shot a few more who tried t'come through the door. Think they wanted t'auction me, didn't want me too injured. Some disagreed, said I was too dangerous."

"And they started fighting amongst themselves," James guessed.

"That they did," Sparrow shrugged. "Never figured most pirates for bein' the very intelligent sort, really. In the mess I tried t'get out, got the stab in the leg, but turned down the wrong way. Holed meself up in a room when me strength started t'give out." A shrug. "Knew I only had t'wait." Another pout at Turner. "Didn't think ye'd be the one t'tell, though. Couldn't have sent a note the usual way t'Gillette? Besides, the agent would'a done somethin' once he could."

"Beggin' yer pardon, Norrington, but I wasn't sure how capable ye really were, an' I didn't want t'entrust the Admiral's well-bein' t'someone I didn't know," Turner looked at James, who inclined his head.

"Who's goin' t'process everythin' on the other end now?" Petulant.

"Jim will manage, sir." Turner said dismissively, still unrepentant. "Barbossa isn't stupid, though. I think he suspected somethin'. Besides, I was plannin' t'get out sooner or later. An', like ye said, ye never wanted me t'be doin' this, anyway, from the start.."

Silence, then, "Any ships meetin' us on the way t'Port Royal?" Sparrow asked, glancing at James.

"The _Unstoppable_ and the _Nemesis_," James said, and gave a list of names off the top of his head.

"One of ye take Groves wi' those and go t'Georgetown. I'd mark out a spot. There be some pirate ships there, in a cove. I want them. Get at least the flagship back t'Port Royal an' refit her fer Naval use."

"Aye, Admiral," Turner glanced at James, then at Sparrow. There was a tiny gesture from the hand with the finger cast, and he looked back to James. "I'd go."

"Your son?" James frowned. He was sure that Sparrow, despite his bland expression, had ordered that, despite his words.

"Needs time t'think things over anyway," Turner said mildly. "Besides, I rather miss command, and I have to get used to it all over again."

"I'd get the plans t'ye later." Another imperceptible gesture. Turner nodded, stood up, and saluted.

"I'd go relieve Gillette at the helm."

When the door closed, James arched an eyebrow at Sparrow. "What was that all about, sir?"

"Feelin' better?" Sparrow grinned, slouching a little more in the pillow. "Ye looked like ye were drownin', all the way t'me ship."

"It hasn't been a pleasant two weeks," James admitted, "But you… you were…"

"Tortured, beaten, shot at, stabbed, aye," Sparrow shrugged, his voice bland, as if merely recounting the number of coats he had in his wardrobe. "Very unimaginative treatment, I have t'say. I'll recover. Been through worse. How's Gillette?"

"Very guilty, once he came out of the fever, sir," James recounted. The man had looked as though he was going through a personal hell. Exhaustion, shame, fear.

"Will have t'talk t'that one." Sparrow nodded. "So."

"You said you referred to your other lieutenants by first names."

Sparrow looked a little shifty. "If this is 'bout the slip down in that room…"

"In a sense."

"Sorry. Ye'd have t'forgive me there, I was a wee bit out of sorts, what wi' the pain an' thinkin' I was hallucinatin' 'bout bein' rescued days earlier than I'd have expected," Sparrow said dryly.

"No, I'd like you to call me James," James said, very quietly.

Sparrow closed his mouth, then dipped his head. The wry smile was wiped quickly away. "Sorry, but I can't be doin' that. Norrington."

"Why?" James blinked.

"Why not ye ask me when I've recovered a wee bit more?"

"So you can come up with a better story to obscure the truth, sir?" James asked dryly.

"_Exactly_. Glad ye understand." Sparrow flapped a hand at him. "Now get Bootstrap back in here."

"How about no?"

"Insubordination is very heavily punished in the Navy, Lieutenant," Sparrow said with mock severity.

"Admiral."

"Aye, well, I wanted t'wait a few more weeks before tellin' ye this, but yer getting' a commission soon, probably t'somewhere 'round North Carolina. New Amsterdam. To Commodore. Congratulations." Sparrow didn't smile. "For fine work done in Jamaica, an' they have a spot open."

"Your doing?" James asked, incredulously, then he narrowed his eyes when there was no answer. "You're trying to get rid of me."

"Not tryin'. I'm _getting_ rid of ye," Sparrow corrected, though the impish grin removed some of the sting of his word choice, repeated as it were.

"What did I do?" James demanded.

"I was thinkin' 'bout it before the… ransom thing, but I made up me mind durin' it. Yer a dangerous man t'have around, James Norrington." Sparrow looked down at his fingers.

"I don't get your meaning, sir." Stiff with outrage.

"Awlright, I'd tell ye, just so ye'd leave an injured man alone, an' whatever the doctor fed me for meds is probably makin' me tongue looser than it should be," Sparrow said, his voice now edged a little with irritation. "'Tis because someday I'm goin' t'slip, an' word will come out t'the privateers that Admiral Jack Sparrow, the Luck of God, fancies a certain green eyed Lieutenant somethin' rotten. If information be power, that little fact is likely worth half the buried wealth in Tortuga t'them." Dark eyes held his gaze evenly, unafraid, daring him to answer.

James stared at him. His throat refused to work. The muttered curse at the docks. The kiss in the apple tree. The way the Admiral seemed to always peek in on what he was doing at least twice a day, and when being so very chatty, lean in too close. All the accidental brushes.

"Aye, s'pose it seems damned obvious t'ye now," Sparrow muttered. "So. Or ye could probably get a post back at Barbary, if ye prefer."

James took a deep breath, and made up his own mind. The past couple of weeks had been… educational. Made him startlingly aware of how much, irrationally, he _needed_ the infuriating commander. "I'm refusing the promotion." He removed his hat, placed it on the bed. The wig was next. Sparrow watched.

"Didn't say ye had a choice here, mate."

James moved deliberately closer, balancing himself on the bed with one knee. There was a sharp, almost panicky "_Lieutenant_", and Sparrow shrank down on the bed. James held himself over the slighter man carefully with elbows, and kissed him, fingers tangling in unbound hair to hold him in place. A muffled whimper, and a growl – lips parted, a tongue darting out to tangle with his. Fingers pulled at a brocade coat collar, then slipped into silky hair, a little painfully. He allowed a gasp for air, then swallowed a protest with another kiss. Repeated the process until both of them sported telltale, swollen lips. Flicked a tongue over the healing split on Sparrow's. Ran fingers around the purpling bruise. Sparrow was panting, with a little hint of agony from the effort it cost his injured frame. He didn't meet James' eyes.

"Aye, too dangerous," he murmured, though he didn't move his fingers or push James away. "Don't want yer blood on me conscience. Besides, I'm fairly sure it's unethical. Abuse of command, an' all that."

James kissed Sparrow again until the man stopped attempting to talk at each breath. The glare eventually turned into a dazed, unfocused expression. "First," he murmured into Sparrow's ear, "Don't tell me you're never going to give any relationship at all a chance, for the rest of your life. Admiral."

He pressed a finger to swollen lips when Jack opened his mouth. "Second, you think too much."

"Third, I'm not sure where you got the idea that you can steal kisses like that in apple trees and not expect any form of retaliation." He flicked a tongue at an ear when Sparrow took in a breath for the sake of dispute. There was a little groan, and the man shut up.

"Fourthly, I notice you failed to include any consideration of how I may feel about the issue." A grin. "I'm willing to hear your defense now, sir."

Irritably. "I'd come up wi' a suitable rebuttal once me brain stops tellin' me t'jump yer bones despite me injuries."

James smirked.

"Just offhand, however, I can think of a few words on which t'build me case. Sodomy. Criminal offence. Ruin." Sparrow said, watching James carefully.

"Curiosity. Mutual attraction. Discretion." James replied, nuzzling Sparrow's beard.

"Insanity. Blackmail. Ethics."

James shifted until his lips were a hair's breath from Sparrow's. Whispered the words into the other man's mouth. "Want. Need."

"The defense concedes the field for now," Sparrow murmured, flicking a warm tongue over James' mouth.

"Only for now?" James breathed.

"Aye, up until ye can come up wi' a better argument."

James nibbled at a lower lip, then looked significantly down at the valley of blankets that marked the apex of Sparrow's unclothed legs, and the obvious tent. Glanced back at Sparrow, and very deliberately, very slowly, licked his lips. "I could. Doesn't have to be verbal, does it?"

"Are ye tryin' t'kill me?"

"Isn't that what the French call it?" James smirked. "A little death."

"If yer goin' t'start anythin', ye'd better finish t'me satisfaction," Sparrow growled, then paused when there was a rap on the door.

"Admiral? It's Gillette. Can I talk to you?"

Sparrow turned his face into the pillow and uttered a soft oath even fouler than the one the lieutenant had previously heard in the apple tree. James chuckled helplessly.

--

To the Admiral's irritation, the doctor ordered him confined to land for the time being, and to get lots of rest. A protest of "But he says that every time!" was summarily ignored by Lieutenant Turner. A palatial guest room was prepared at the Governor's mansion – Miss Swann played hostess very prettily, and Will Turner soon got to know the run between the mansion and the fort very well. The boy seemed subdued, of late, but James supposed he didn't really blame him.

Sparrow had what seemed to be an endless stream of visitors. With the normally flighty Admiral bedridden, work beckoned inexorably. Well-wishers, merchants princes, East India Company representatives, marines needing consultation on some issue or another, Gillette, Governor Swann and the transfer of paperwork from the fort. Even, occasionally, children from the town. Save for this last, Sparrow was beginning to get decidedly snappish in company.

James, on the other hand, was freer – he even finished all of the backdated work within half a week, with not many calls on his time now that it was simpler and more efficient for anyone who needed to talk to the Admiral to find him.

On the fifth day Sparrow was walking, albeit short distances and occasionally supported by his page. He insisted on being brought to his _Pearl_, where he fell asleep at the helm, in the sun.

Recovery was surprisingly fast (though James had his suspicions). On the second Sunday after his return, Sparrow was back at the rockpools, with his little followers. James left service early and watched wryly from the beach as Sparrow picked up a starfish and turned it over for inquisitive eyes. He set them a task with words James couldn't catch – and they scattered over the beach. Little fingers picked up starfish where they had been left on the sand at the high tide, and flung them into the sea with whoops and cheers.

Sparrow got a little unsteadily to his feet and sauntered over to James, grinning, his coat darkened at the hem with seawater. "Skippin' out on service? Ye'd go right t'hell, Lieutenant."

"What happens to those who encourage children to skip service, then?"

"Warm spot next t'the Devil too, I s'pose," Sparrow fanned himself with elaborately twirling fingers.

James chuckled. "How have you been so far, sir?"

"Fine, except ye haven't been visitin' much." Sparrow sat down on the sand. "T'aint right, ye know, teasin' a man like that when he can't do anythin' 'bout it, an' then not visitin'."

"Your social calendar was packed, sir," James said mildly.

"Aye, an' I don't think I've ever been sexually frustrated for so long, t'this extent, before," Sparrow muttered. James began to laugh. "T'aint funny either."

"It's the way you can just say things like that out aloud," James managed to say, when the bout of hilarity had passed.

"'Tis true," Sparrow glared at him. "An' yer fault."

"I wouldn't be averse to remedying it, but the environment of recovery and your social calendar are proving inconvenient," James said placidly. "For example, I'm free today, but…" he inclined his head at the children.

"Aye, I know. S'posed to sneak wi' them 'round t'the new grocer," Sparrow said. He smiled when one boy, sleeves and breeches rolled up haphazardly, approached them holding out a large mottled shell, offering a name, and a random, likely untrue anecdote. The curiosity of the young satisfied, the child ran off again down the hot sand. "After they're done wi' the beach. An' me _Pearl_ misses me. I'm movin' back t'me ship."

"It's your fault, then," James glanced back to the waves, trying to sound unconcerned, though the slight roughness to his tone betrayed his own frustration.

Sparrow, of course, picked that up immediately. He grasped a handful of white sand, and turned his palm over, watching it stream through the cracks in browned fingers. "Ain't that the saddest thing." Wry.


	7. Distractions

Chapter 7

Distractions

"Can I speak to um, the both of you for a moment? Sirs." There was a brief hesitation where a very nervous young Will Turner debated between using 'sir' as compared to 'sirs'. The page was staring at his boots, standing stiffly at the door to James' office.

James glanced at Gillette, who shrugged. They had been discussing minor Naval policy changes with regard to signals, having given up on trying to find the Admiral when he was out with children. "Of course."

Gillette got up from the chair, and leaned casually against the desk, gesturing. Will climbed onto the warmed chair and smiled, fidgeting. After a long moment, James took pity on the boy. "It's about your father?"

"Yes," Will said quickly, and blushed. "I wanted to know. What was he like? That you've seen, sir."

"I'm sure that Gillette here would be better placed to tell you," James replied gently.

"I'd like to know from you too, sir," Will said earnestly. "For you seem like a good judge of men." The second line was too quick to be anything but carefully rehearsed. Obviously Will had been thinking about talking to James, at least, for a while – at least during his father's absence, still retrieving whatever ships Sparrow wanted in Georgetown.

"Thanks," James said wryly, thinking of the various misjudgments he had made of Sparrow's own character based on first impressions. "He's a fine lieutenant. The men respect him – command is easy to him. And he's obviously very loyal to the Admiral."

Will glanced at Gillette, as if asking for his opinion. Gillette sighed. "He was always behind the Admiral. Supporting him, since he was midshipman and the Admiral was a Lieutenant. In him, Admiral Sparrow has always placed the most trust." A pause, then a wry grin. "I remember the first day I met him – it was in the practice yard. Some targets were set up at fifty paces, he was given a brief glance and blindfolded. He hit each bullseye with a pistol."

When James and Will blinked at Gillette, the midshipman added, "Lieutenant Turner was… is… Admiral Sparrow's guard, and sword. He's said to be a genius with weaponry – an affinity to any sort of armaments – swords, guns, ships, staves, anything. He once held back a tribe of bloodthirsty natives in time for Admiral Sparrow and himself to make good their escape with their own rudimentary bows and arrows. That and a quick mind at problem solving and a keen sense of survival made him best for what he had to do. The last ten years or so."

"Oh." Pride and awe warred with Will's resentment.

"I heard from the Admiral that at that time they had a once in a lifetime chance to send one man to infiltrate the Tortuga piratical network, in a place where he could work his way up and affect the placing of more agents, collate the necessary information for strategy," Gillette looked at his fingers. "I'm sorry, Will. Admiral Sparrow never wanted Lieutenant Turner to go – he was married at the time, and he was always talking of his son and wife back in London."

"But he did," Will said quietly.

"He said he was the best man for the job, and that sending anyone else would be tantamount to suicide," Gillette nodded. "He said he couldn't go back to London and face the both of you with that on his conscience."

"He didn't have to disappear for ten years," Will's fingers curled in his trousers. A hurt child, now, all forgetful of honorifics. Seeking adult comfort. "Did he?"

"He was likely afraid. Missives sometimes get waylaid on the sea. Afraid that the both of you would be compromised," Gillette didn't look at Will. "Even in the encrypted letters he exchanged with Sparrow, there was to be no mention of the both of you at all, just in case."

"I'm not sure I can forgive him," Will's voice was almost inaudible.

"I'm asking you to try, Will," Gillette said gently. "Even if you don't want to, it'd mean a lot. To him – the Admiral."

"That's not particularly fair," James cut in, tiring of observation. "If you want to forgive him, then do it out of your own inclination. Not for someone else's peace of mind."

"Sir," Gillette glanced at him sharply.

"As much as I like and respect Lieutenant Turner," James said firmly, "The idea that he abandoned his child and wife for some odd sense of duty does not sit well with me."

"But…"

"Let the child decide his own mind," James glanced down at his notes. "Now, midshipman. Signals."

"Thank you, sir." Will said, his voice now steady.

--

"Somehow ye managed t'annoy Gillette," the Admiral said, cross-legged on the table at the officer's mess. James didn't look up from his food. The white cat slipped out from Sparrow's arms and padded over the table, sniffed at the basket of bread, then leaped down to curl up in a chair.

"I suppose so."

"I'd like t'know how, seein' as he an' Groves were singin' yer praises up till today."

"Why don't you ask him, sir?"

"I don't like bickerin' between me officers."

"It's too minor to be called bickering, Admiral."

"Ye know, yer really more suited for a position of higher command," Sparrow sighed, picking shedded white fur off his dark blue coat. "What wi' yer preoccupation on the concept of free thinkin'."

"Trying to get rid of me again, sir?" James raised an eyebrow. "If told to forgive his father without that being what he really felt was right, I doubt that boy would have been any happier."

"He wasn't told."

"He was told it would please you, which would be the same thing. Perhaps worse."

A lopsided grin. "Don't like t'please me?"

"It's not a joking matter, even if Will is a child, sir." James finished, and put spoon and fork down neatly on the plate. Mopped his mouth with a napkin. "I'm not going to apologize. If that's what you want."

Sparrow sighed. "Bootstrap was Gillette's – and Groves' – mentor. Just so ye know where they're comin' from."

"I think that may have obscured how they may perceive where Will is 'coming from', as if you put it. Sir." James said flatly.

Sparrow pouted. "An' now yer annoyed wi' me."

"I'm not annoyed with you. Admiral."

"The honorifics are beginnin' t'sound like afterthoughts. Ye are."

"Will Turner is now – as much as his position appears to be imaginary – part of the Navy. Sir. And the duty of a commander should be to his men, be they of the lowest rank. Perhaps more – to those with no power." James finally looked up to hold Sparrow's gaze. "I shouldn't need to tell you that. You gave yourself up to save Gillette and the others."

"Aye, Lieutenant. But there be few here who know that an' understand. Fewer yet who understand an' act," Sparrow said blandly, fluttering his fingers. "That's why I think ye be wasted here. Yer suited t'high command, not t'be commanded."

"I'm still not going. And you're trying to distract me from the issue, Admiral."

"Seems related t'me. I wasn't lookin' for ye t'apologise t'Gillette, by the way. He'd think it over an' get over it. Mebbe sooner than ye think."

"Then?"

"Testin' some preconceptions," Sparrow grinned. "Ye know, could be I'd think ye'd be of better use t'the Navy elsewhere, an' have ye reassigned anyway."

"Then I may resign my commission and live quietly in Port Royal. Perhaps as… mm… some sort of minor harbor official." James smirked, when Sparrow frowned, tilting his head at an odd angle as he tried to ascertain whether or not the lieutenant was joking. "Honestly, Admiral. I rather thought I'd won on this issue."

"Aye, ye didn't exactly have t'opportunity to advance yer closin' arguments, so I'm not sure ye did." Sparrow's eyes held a wicked gleam.

James glanced around them. The relatively small officer's mess had only two entrances – one to the kitchen, one to a main corridor of the building attached to the barracks, and both doors were closed. It was late for lunch and it was very unlikely that either Gillette or Groves hadn't eaten. The windows were narrow and they were three stories up from the courtyard. He looked back to Sparrow, and his smile was lazy. "Are you free now, sir?"

"Thought ye'd _never _ask," Sparrow pushed plates and bowls away, and slipped in front of James, boot heels resting on the armrests to either side.

James laughed. "Eager, aren't we?" His hands stroked firm thighs, feeling tight fabric bunch slightly under fingers.

"Man, ye have no idea," Sparrow growled, his voice rough from denied need.

James' fingers were on the second button on the white breeches when there was a knock on the door. Sparrow's fingers curled tightly into the edge of the table, and he let out a soft snarl, baring his teeth, then one hand quickly came up to hold James' palm in place, when the lieutenant began to pull back. His hips bucked slightly. James grinned, and squeezed. A low oath, and a jerk.

Another, more insistent knock. "Lieutenant Norrington? There's a Lord Suther of the East India Company looking for the Admiral. He says it's very important, and he'd like to talk to you if we can't find the Admiral. He's in the waiting room at the moment."

"All right, one moment," James called, then glanced at Sparrow, pitching his voice low. "Sir?"

Sparrow lowered his head, muttering something James couldn't catch. Then, "I'd get out through the other door."

"Not going?"

"Not unless ye want me t'molest ye in front of Lord Suther, who if I recall is over fifty an' has a heart condition. Distract him for a bit. I'd talk t'him in a couple of hours."

"What are you going to do, sir?"

"Take a really cold bath."

--

James was lying on his side, back facing the balcony in his chambers, sheets up to his elbows, one hand busy under the blankets, in his breeches. Panting. A ritual now all too familiar since the return to Port Royal from Tortuga. Eyes closed, he thought of an unshaven, infuriating commander with a white headscarf and a wicked grin.

Thus occupied, he didn't sense Sparrow's stealthy climb into his room until the bed depressed next to him. He turned sharply with a hiss onto his back, free hand groping under his pillow for the pistol, then sank back into the bed with a helpless, embarrassed, shocked gasp. "Admiral! Didn't think you'd turn burglar."

"Mm. Only when there's somethin' interestin' t'steal." Silky white shirt, casual brown breeches. Green headscarf. Fingers slipped under the blankets, nudged James' own hand out of place, closed around a very willing prick. Smooth, warmed metal, and calluses. James groaned, and bucked. Hazed vision, not wanting to question if the shocks of pleasure centering below his abdomen were merely dreamed. Heat pressed over one thigh, rubbing against him. Already close to the edge, it only took a couple of strokes before he spilled over nightshirt and nut-browned fingers with a choked moan. Sparrow smirked, brought up his hand, and lapped one stained forefinger. James bit down on his own lip.

A deep breath, and he managed to pull himself up onto his knees, urging Sparrow more firmly onto the bed with a hand, and pulling the slighter man's legs open, wary of still-healing wounds. Sparrow laughed as James began on the buttons without preamble. "James. Didn't realize ye were missin'…"

"It's not the defense's turn," James muttered, with a meaningful squeeze. Sparrow shut up with a deep purr that made his own temporarily sated shaft twitch. God, he had needed this.

-cut-

There was a knock on the door. Both men froze. James began to pull away, but a hand tangled in his hair.

"Sir? Sorry to wake you up so late," his housekeeper spoke, sleepy herself. "But there's a… er… midshipman Gillette, in the foyer to see you. He says it's very important, and he can't find the Admiral."

James closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the very masculine musk of Sparrow's body, and the obvious scent of his need. Wryly, he said, "All right. Thank you, Mrs Henderson. Please make him some tea while I dress."

"Of course." Receding footsteps.

James looked up at Sparrow. Grinned, and flicked his tongue at the tip. The Admiral bared his teeth, whispering, "Stop now an'… an'…"

"It has to be something important, for Gillette to wake me up at this time of the night," James murmured. Sparrow wriggled as hot breath from the words bathed his prick, then he sighed.

"S'pose so. Guess I should go see what he wants, too."

James was sure he looked absolutely shocked. "_No_. I mean, if we both…"

Sparrow smirked, then flapped a hand dismissively. "Not go down wi' ye, no. Ye can pick me up on the road. I'd say I was out on a stroll." He muttered a string of obscenities to himself, then added, with a growl, "If this ain't an emergency, I'm goin' t'_shoot _somebody."

--

"What?" Turner sounded puzzled. James, Sparrow and the First Lieutenant stood in the Admiral's office. Sparrow was slouched in his chair, boots on the desk, his dress coat thrown over his casual clothes, glaring daggers.

"Ye call me out fer this?" he said, petulantly.

James yawned, nursing his coffee and doing his best not to remember how Sparrow had tasted in his mouth. "Admiral, the information is clearly of utmost importance." Apparently, amongst the pirates that had surrendered when Turner led two warships to capture three pirate ships with judicial bombardment, was a set of written plans and maps regarding a potential concerted raid on Port Royal.

"Aye, well, ye think I sent ye t'get those ships out o' a wild fancy?" Sparrow snapped, fluttering his fingers. "I knew those damned plans were likely there, from talk in that cellar, just didn't say anythin' in case it leaked out from our marines an' caused some sort of panic. Ye could'a given them t'me in the mornin'."

"The midshipmen got a little worried when you couldn't be found on the _Pearl_, sir," Turner replied, unrepentant. "And of course, Groves was excessively impressed with the plans. So it seemed natural to just wake Norrington. It was by pure chance that they picked you up on the way to the docks…" the First Lieutenant paused, then looked from Sparrow to James and back again. His lip quirked. "… I see."

Sparrow uttered an expletive even as James blanched. Turner began to laugh.


	8. Directions

Chapter 8

Directions

"I've never seen you use that. Why do you wear it?" James pointed at the compass that nearly always hung at Sparrow's hips.

The Admiral grinned.

"… sir." Grudgingly. James was not inclined to be polite, after handling panicky merchant princes all afternoon. When he got his hands on whoever had leaked information about the plans to the general public, he was going to…

"Mebbe I don't. Need t'use it." Sparrow said, with an irritating wink. It turned out that the exasperating man had been sitting within one of the sea caves hollowed out by the waves, at one of the inlets. A half-finished bottle of rum, and a strewn grease paper wrap that had likely last contained some sort of pie, from the Cook. And he had been sketching again – though this time, only of his cat. Said cat was asleep on his head, Admiral's hat on the gravel. Where the gravel translated into a narrow spur of sand, then into the sea, were a few half-hearted, oddly shaped sandcastles that looked vaguely familiar.

James sat down, careful not to fold boots wet from trudging through the surf towards the cave underneath him. He could see Sparrow was in (what Lieutenant Turner called) one of _those_ moods. "Fashion accessory?"

"Like the scarf," Sparrow said, continuing to sketch.

"I don't believe you, sir."

"Mm."

James listened to the surf break gently on the tiny bit of beach connected to the cave, for a moment, then muttered, "Lord Jacobs…"

"… aye. Thanks for handlin' them."

"If you're planning anything…"

"Already talked it over wi' Bootstrap."

"I'm also your Lieutenant. Sir." Aggravation.

"Aye." Sparrow tilted his head a little, thumb and forefinger arcing over the papers. Proportioning. The cat, miraculously, stayed attached to dark hair, not even waking up. "That ye are. Second lieutenant, mind ye."

"Oh, for God's sake," James muttered, and half-turned to stare at the sandcastles. If Sparrow wanted to be childish, he wasn't in the mood to indulge him. Frustration from the repeated interruptions over the past day had been fueled by the continued need to be calm, patient, polite and handle pampered, overfed merchants interested only in their own skins, all afternoon. Bootstrap seemed to be even better than Sparrow at vanishing.

The shapes of the sandcastles were too remarkably regular to be whimsical. James narrowed his eyes, and leaned closer. A thought nagged at the back of his mind. From this angle, the rather odd conglomerate square shape looked like…

"Want t'know 'bout the compass?" Sparrow's bland voice chased the thought away. James turned back to regard his commander, thought about using sarcasm, then decided against it in favor of curiosity.

"Yes, sir."

"'Tis a magic compass."

James rolled his eyes, and began to turn back to look at the sandcastles. Sparrow chuckled. "Don't have t'believe me if ye don't want to, but ye asked, an' that isn't bein' very polite, aye?"

The lieutenant took a deep breath, and looked steadily back at Sparrow. "All right. I will briefly suspend all disbelief, Admiral. So what is so 'magical' about this compass of yours that you never open?"

"I got it for me twenty-first birthday from a witch," Sparrow said absently, fingering it. "She said it would point towards me heart's desire. Or rather, the heart's desire of anybody who holds it an' opens it. As a birthday present, I could use it once, an' once only. If I used it again after I found me… desire, after doin' that, it'd continue t'show me heart's desire, but I'd be trapped within that. An' die within that, twenty years from then." He pulled a face. "Not really the words she chose. Anyway. S'pose she meant the compass be cursed, an' for me present she be protectin' me from it for a single use."

"It's been at least a decade."

"Aye. But I have it good now, I think, an' I don't want t'trust that t'fate." Sparrow fingered the compass again.

"What did the compass point you to?" James asked, even though he was fairly sure he knew the answer.

"What d'ye think?"

"The _Black Pearl_."

"Aye. Smart lad." Sparrow tilted his pencil to shade his current work.

"You've never thought of using the compass again, since?"

"Many times." The Admiral grinned. "But I thought a wee bit 'bout it. Seems a little… peculiar, aye, that the compass can see a heart's desire, when hearts be fickle. Not t'mention, t'aint good when a man gets what he knows is said heart's desire, an' the next, an' the next. Could be that after a while he'd want for nothin' else. Man who wants for nothin', 'tis a dead man. Man wi' nothin' t'look to."

"Oh."

"Sometimes I wonder what'd have happened if I did open the compass," Sparrow shrugged. "But I wear it now as a reminder. Could be that things be very different, if I opened it again, then. So I don't take me life now for granted."

James glanced at his own fingers. "What is your heart's desire? If you don't mind me asking, sir."

"Freedom. Always been freedom. The _Pearl_ be freedom. I've been chasin' it since I can remember." The Admiral looked down as he sketched. "Perhaps not as well as I should'a. Climbin' higher an' higher in the Navy, seems like there's more an' more shackles."

James snorted. "It's not like you really…"

"Aye. Don't mean they aren't there, though, even if I'm pretendin' they aren't."

"You don't like being Admiral?"

Sparrow's grin was playful. "What, when I can have any number of handsome subordinates?" A leer, now. "No doubt eager t'please their equally handsome commanders?"

James stared at him until the suggestive quirk to his lips faded away. "Mm. It has its ups. An' downs. Desk work be a down. Sometimes command is a down. Havin' t'give up me _Pearl_ – didn't accept that one, so t'aint counted. The regard of the marines… sometimes a down."

"No clear advantages?"

Sparrow smiled faintly. "I enjoy Sundays." Children. Another playful smirk. "And I like the big hat. And the cat. And me _Pearl_ loves bein' pampered wherever I may care t'dock, outfitted wi' the finest gear. An', of course, I got t'meet some pretty amazin' people."

James didn't comment. The advantages sounded fragile. Trivial. Command stifled Sparrow, at least on land – that had been increasingly obvious to James over the months. No wonder Barnsby had sought to take everything off the other man's shoulders. It was, however, difficult for James to do so – not only was he fairly sure some of the decisions had to be, technically, made by Sparrow, he was convinced that the other man should at _least_ make some attempt at doing the aspect of his job that involved an office and not the helm. After all, if the other man had problems with paperwork and meetings he could bloody well have stayed a post captain.

Seeking freedom in the higher echelons of the Navy, indeed. If he had really wanted to be free of all responsibilities, free to chase the horizon, he should have turned pirate.

And, likely, have died at forty, with his _Pearl_…

"Aye. Sometimes I wonder if I chose wrong," Sparrow said, cutting into his thoughts. When James looked startled, the Admiral grinned. "T'aint hard t'follow, man, when ye glance at me compass, then in the direction of the harbor."

"I don't think you did, sir," James said doubtfully.

"S'pose so. I'd hate t'have ye as me enemy," Sparrow gestured at him bonelessly with his pencil. "As much as it'd have been fun t'have ye chase me an' clap me in irons." That leer, again.

"And hung," James said dryly.

"Yer no fun." Scribbles.

"The compass showed you to your _Pearl_? In what way, sir?"

"She was floatin' in the middle of the ocean, no crew, no supplies, no furniture. There was a 'happy birthday' note tied t'the helm."

"Written by the… er… witch?"

"Not her." An enigmatic grin. "Once I boarded I knew she was it. An' I've never opened the damned compass since." A quiet vein of determination.

James held out his hand, palm open. Sparrow frowned at it. "I'm not goin' t'lend it t'ye, either. Didn't I say it was cursed?"

"I doubt I'd die at forty."

"Mebbe ye will."

"Maybe it just applies to you. Sir."

"Mebbe ye'd die tomorrow."

A half-shrug. "I hunt privateers." _It's not exactly a safe occupation._

"That's different." _I plan the hunts._

"Come on, I'm curious. If it's really magical," James hoped that he injected just the right about of amused, not-quite-disdain. "Admiral."

"Could be that if ye see what's yer heart's desire, even if ye don't realize it, ye'd just spend the rest of yer life chasin' it. Until it ruins ye. Kills ye."

"It'd only show me a direction, won't it? Sir?"

"'Tis a fool who don't take magic seriously," Sparrow looked back at his sketches. "An' it's still no."

"All right." James said, very easily.

Perhaps a little too easily. Sparrow spared him a suspicious glance. "An' yer goin' t'promise me not t'do anythin' sneaky, aye? That'd make me regret tellin' ye a secret?"

"Only if I get ample consideration." James smiled lazily. "Sir."

"What are yer terms?" Sparrow raised an eyebrow.

"I want to be treated as your second in command, not some lackey."

"That's all?" Sparrow's relief made James irritable.

"It's not trivial."

"Didn't say it was."

"You didn't need to."

Sparrow took in a deep breath, and closed his eyes. "Look, mate. I'm sorry. Bootstrap has been wi' me for a long, long time, aye? I don't trust easy. Ye haven't been here for even a year. An'… things are getting a wee bit complicated, between us. Lately. Give me a break, aye?"

The little thought poked at the back of his mind again. Jack glanced at the sandcastles. As he'd thought, Sparrow immediately spoke to distract him, this time with a seductive purr in his voice that spliced warmth between his legs. Distracting. It was meant to be distracting. James clenched his jaw tight. "What about other forms of consideration, James?"

Sparrow hardly ever called him James, even in private. It was usually 'Lieutenant' – or no names at all. Good. Because when he said _James_, in that husky, come-hither purr, all James really wanted to do was…

He stared at the sandcastles, ignoring Sparrow. Tilted his head, so as to see it from another angle. Then, blinking, "It's a little model of Port Royal." A representative model, anyway, of the more important landmarks. Suddenly, little pebbles and shells no longer seemed to be haphazardly strewn about by the surf. "What do the round stones mean?"

And Sparrow was in his lap, cat-hat and all. Sketches discarded where he had been. A roll of slender hips made his prick stir within white breeches. James bit back a groan, and glared at the Admiral. "Jack." His voice was too rough to hold any censure. Sparrow grinned.

"Sounds so much better than 'Admiral'. Or 'sir'. Though the last has possibilities."

"You're the one who always talks about honorifics." A faint, strained smile.

"We're in private. Well. Save for Raja here, but he doesn't squeal." Jack pointed upwards at the sleeping cat.

"I refuse to kiss you while you have a cat on your head." James tried to keep a straight face, but his lips quirked. There was a voice in the back of his mind yammering about sandcastles and stones, but he ignored it.

"Aye, but he don't like sand."

"We're not on sand."

"Gravel."

"Jack. I won't kiss you. With a cat. On your head."

"What about I kiss y… mmph. Awlright." Jack pulled back from the fingers that had darted between their lips, and carefully poked the furry weight on his head. There was a sleepy mewl. White fur was scooped off loosely bound black hair and deposited on the gravel. The cat shook itself, then ambled over to the Admiral's hat, and slumped on that instead. Jack grimaced. "That one's me favorite."

"Mm." James gently tugged down Jack's chin, and pressed their lips together, committing himself to a detailed exploration of a mouth that tasted of rum, and the faintest hint of meat pie. Beef, he decided, on the third foray, fingers tugging out the half-tucked shirt to splay over a warmed back, trace the curved spine, cup the firm rump, pinch. The slender body jerked, then there was a growl. Fingers were deftly undoing his cravat. James smirked into the next kiss, and delicately bucked. A muffled whimper, and a tremor, then the Admiral of the White, the famed Luck of God, was shamelessly grinding into his lieutenant's hips. Panting.

Somewhere in the haze of lust that seemed to be stemming directly from the salacious wriggling in his lap, James registered splashes outside that didn't sound like waves. And in fact, were getting closer. And really sounded like…

"Admiral? Lieutenant?" Groves.

Sparrow's eyes narrowed into slits, and his hands went down to his pistol. James took a deep breath, then grabbed the other man's wrists.

"Funny. I could have sworn he was here." Gillette's voice.

"Maybe if we check?"

James dipped his head, shook it slightly, then tapped Sparrow's thigh. The Admiral pouted, but grudgingly slipped off, then shrugged off his coat, sat cross legged next to the sandcastles, and pulled the fabric into his lap, heavy folds. James did the same, hoping it didn't look too ridiculous. Or suspicious.

"Y'see, Lieutenant," Sparrow began to talk conversationally, "The stones represent patrols of five, an' the shells mark places where they could make port wi' sufficient cover."

Splashes, then Gillette and Groves peered into the cave, to see Sparrow and James apparently discussing defensive plans over a sandcastle version of Port Royal. Gillette was the first to salute. "Admiral. Lieutenant Norrington."

"What?" Sparrow asked, a little too curtly, his eyes fixed on the sandcastles.

"Bootstrap sent us to tell you, while he's busy at the fort with reports. There isn't going to be a raid, after all. Post Captain Edmonds and his patrol sunk a few ships some miles out of Saint Clemens. Letter from Calvins just came via the normal way." The midshipmen, thankfully, didn't seem to notice.

"Ah. Well. There goes the afternoon," Sparrow pouted. "Thanks anyway, Lieutenant." James nodded, and leaned back with a stifled yawn that was entirely feigned, fighting to control the need that burned within him.

"There's another page encrypted for you, sir," Groves added. "In _that_ manner."

"An' I don't s'pose ye brought the letter."

"Sorry." Gillette said, hanging his head. "But we thought maybe you might happen back in your office while we were looking for you."

"Why don't ye both head back first an' tell Cook I want some pastries for tea?" Sparrow suggested.

"Um… there are some administrative matters we need to talk to Lieutenant Norrington about. We can discuss it on the way," Groves glanced at James, who did a mental check about the state of certain bits of his body, let out an internal sigh of relief, and uncurled to his feet, pulling on his coat. He didn't need to look backwards on his way out, after the midshipman, to know that Jack was scowling.


	9. No Quarter

Chapter 9

No Quarter

Outfitted and repainted, the pirate flagship looked decidedly Naval. James couldn't really say the same for the other two captured ships – at least, not until someone thought to replace the figureheads. No self-respecting Naval ship would feature naked women, mermaids or not. He frowned.

"Don't like?" Sparrow was uncharacteristically in the open – usually around after lunch the man would have hidden himself somewhere to escape work. The unveiling of the result of weeks of refitting and repainting, however, probably stirred his interest enough for him to risk paperwork.

"Not if the ships are to be used for Naval purposes," James said dryly. "And I notice the ships haven't been renamed."

"Aye, thought since there be three ships, ye name one, I name one, an' Bootstrap gets the last," the Admiral glanced over at one of the smaller refitted ships, where Lieutenant Turner had his son lifted in his arms to play with the helm. At least that had come out well – they had reconciled, and Will had moved out of the barracks to an available house with his father in the residential area of Port Royal. "Advantages of command, an' what not."

James' eyes were drawn back to the flagship. Although not as sleek as his _Interceptor_, and likely to be easily outdistanced on open water by the _Pearl_, she was majestic, her very bearing suggestive of power. Might, not speed – a good counterpoint to his _Interceptor_. "I'd name that one, sir."

Sparrow pouted. "But I'm the Admiral."

"So?"

"An' that's the biggest ship."

"And?"

"… fine." Sparrow pouted, then muttered. "But tonight I have some matters t'discuss wi' ye, aboard the _Pearl_."

James arched an eyebrow at him. _Too many guards._

Sparrow stuck out his tongue. _I don't care anymore._

"… fine." James said, though his doubtful tone didn't hide his misgivings. The Admiral smirked and summoned one of the marines with a little wave.

"Tell Lieutenant Turner that he be havin' the honor of namin' the ship that he currently be playin' wi'." When the marine hurried away, Sparrow looked back to James. "Well?"

"I'd name her the _Dauntless_," James said, slowly.

"Fine name for a Navy ship," Sparrow tapped at his lip. "If a wee bit borin'. _Interceptor_ an' the _Dauntless_."

"I apologize if I am not suitably flamboyant for your tastes, Admiral," James replied sarcastically, with a jerk of his head towards the _Black Pearl_.

"I don't want t'outline me tastes t'ye in public," Sparrow grinned wickedly, his dark eyes holding a fleeting promise that was quickly snatched away when the marine returned.

"Lieutenant Turner says he will think about it."

"Aye." Sparrow looked to the last ship. "S'pose I'd call that one the… hm… _Mad Cat_."

"You can't call a Navy ship that. Sir."

"_Mermaid's Song_?"

"…no, sir."

"_Mister Right_?"

"…you're doing this on purpose."

"_Lucifer's Wings_?"

"…Admiral."

"Ye want me to call her somethin' borin'."

"…"

"Fine, fine. Don't pull that face. Mm. _No Quarter_, how 'bout that."

"…passable. Sir."

"Assign her t'Kingston, I think they be short."

"What about the _Dauntless_?"

"Want to be Commodore?" Sparrow grinned again.

James let out a deep, long-suffering sigh, and didn't bother to answer. He started to stalk off towards the _Dauntless_, but a slender hand caught his sleeve.

"'Course, ye can still be based here, if ye want," Sparrow said mildly.

James paused, frowned at the Admiral, then looked over his shoulder at Turner. Father and son sat on the rail, looking down into the water – the boy waved cheerfully at them. "Shouldn't you be offering the commission to your more senior officers, sir?"

"What wi' his boy being quite attached t'Port Royal, Bootstrap said he ain't that interested in promotion for a while, or more duties. 'Till I get a few more lieutenants, p'haps, or when Will grows up a wee bit more. An' then only if he's t'be posted here, or at Kingston."

"Simple. Promote Gillette and Groves, sir." James said, glad that the midshipmen were out of hearing distance. "And don't reassign them. They already have some experience with captainship – a few patrols of their own and they should be able to…"

"Aye, the loyalty thing?"

Dryly, "That's not a problem that's mine to solve. Admiral. Besides, do you think either Lieutenant Turner or myself are any less loyal?"

"'Course not," Sparrow glanced down when his white cat approached sedately from its nap above some soon-to-be-loaded crates, and scooped it up. "An' they certainly won't be any amount of troublesome, like ye. Bootstrap, t'some extent. Kingston needs a Post Captain. Montserrat may need a Commodore. Edmonds is goin' t'New Amsterdam within the year."

"The Barbary Coast has a lot of lieutenants and very few chances of promotion. Poach a few more. Admiral."

Sparrow grinned. "All like ye? Cute, but troublesome?"

"Perhaps. Sir." James didn't bother to sound respectful, annoyed with this topic. He was already beginning to suspect that Sparrow, of late, merely brought it up simply because it could easily rile the Lieutenant, and start them on a train of inquiry that eventually ended up compromising. Not that they had actually managed to do anything to either party's satisfaction as such. Even with Bootstrap told to make himself available for inquiries (Turner was deeply amused), there were still so many demands on James' (and Sparrow's, technically) time that they were prone to be found and interrupted at any time. James was beginning to wonder, vaguely, if there was some sort of malevolent deity dogging their luck.

Sparrow shot him a thoughtful look, then straightened slightly, opening his mouth – but was then hailed from behind by one of the shipbuilder supervisors, asking about what to paint on the bow for the names.

--

"And you think none of the marines posted to guard your ship would find it… odd, that I spend the night in your cabin?" James asked dryly. It had taken a certain amount of ingenuity and minor changes to the patrols for him to sneak aboard the _Black Pearl_, hopefully unnoticed.

"Didn't ye just say nobody saw ye come aboard?" Sparrow's expression was predatory, even though he was, at the moment, at a disadvantage. James wasn't sure exactly what had happened that had resulted with the Admiral being tied to one of the protruding carvings of something the Lieutenant couldn't make out in the dark, above the bed, wrists above his head, the white headscarf making the seaman's knots clearly visible despite the guttering candle on the desk. Without the scarf, and the ribbon discarded somewhere on the deck, Sparrow's mane of hair was almost scandalously wild. James curled his fingers into it. Soft. Woman's hair. Fascinated, he curled strands between thumb and forefinger.

"I meant how I was going to get out in the morning." James replied mildly. Boots, shirt, coat also strewn somewhere on the deck, with Sparrow's coat and boots. "Where's your cat?"

"Prefers the galley," Sparrow said, turning his head to bare his neck to nips, purring at flicks of a warm tongue, arching when sword-callused hands slipped under his shirt to caress his back. James fumbled with the shirt buttons, then yanked the fabric up to Sparrow's elbows, lapping down a collarbone to the first white scar. Traced it with his tongue. "James!" Involuntary tugs on the scarf. James looked up, briefly, and smiled lazily, with just the hint of a smirk – Sparrow's eyes seemed to darken further, with hunger. "_James_." A purr, now.

"You'd have to be quiet, Jack." James murmured, his words giving lie to his actual state of mind. It had been a long while since he had the time or the inclination to touch another person as a lover, and he wasn't feeling particularly confident. Still, one could always logically conjecture… scar tissue, rough under his tongue. A little moan – Sparrow's throat. Pressing tongue against firming nipples, and light sucks – a soft yelp, the sounds of straining fabric. Taste, scent – James nuzzled the underside of one arm, nibbling just below the rumpled shirt, then lapped a slow path – shoulder, collarbone, neck hollow, collarbone, shoulder – to the other. He pushed one knee carefully over a hip and curled his back, pushing his weight on hands and the other leg, pinning down the writhing, gasping Admiral. Having the slighter man rub against him would likely undo him before he had his fill.

"I was right, yer tryin' t'kill me," Sparrow moaned, as James nuzzled his side, pressed soft kisses over the ribcage, then a nip over the abdomen. He chuckled softly, shifting down to use hands to hold impatient hips in place, as he dipped his tongue into the navel, already catching the scent of masculine need. Fingers worked on far too many annoying belts, then the knot of the sash.

-cut-

The Admiral touched fingers gingerly to the bite when James pulled away and slumped on the bed next to him (out of breath, barely conscious), and laughed, a little shakily. "Savage." Playful.

Green eyes snapped open, then widened to see smudges of crimson on brown fingers. "Oh, _Christ_." He rolled to his side, shaking his head to clear the fog, arms trembling, but managed to mutter, "Do you have salve in your cabin?" (or attempted to, anyway – the only coherent word his ears made out was 'salve').

"Sure it can wait for the mornin'," Jack murmured sleepily, snuggling close. An attempt to get out of bed anyway was foiled by a curling leg and a purr at his neck. James relaxed, reluctantly, and settled for lapping at the wound in an apology.

"Stings."

"Sorry."

"That didn't mean stop."

"Oh."

"…wonder how I'm goin' t'sit tomorrow."

"…sorry."

"I saw that smirk."

"…yes, sir."

--

"The boy sure picked a funny day t'propose," Sparrow said when James located him at the tea reception. A Commodore's dress uniform was even more stifling than a Lieutenant's in the Caribbean heat, and he was beginning to vaguely regret finally (after many years, and a recent stint as Post Captain) accepting the commission. Years of little quips, nagging and exasperation (marked by discreet encounters and, still, the occasional unfortunate work day interruptions). Will had made midshipman, and his father took up a commission as Post Captain at Kingston, rather skeptically entrusting the general care of his son to the Navy and to a bemused Governor Swann (as evidenced by his frequent visits).

Right now the blushing couple were (not that this was any form of unusual, of late), seated together at the bell on the parapet and far, far away in the clouds. Their fathers were browsing the hors d'oeuvres with ostensible unconcern, carefully flanked by Lieutenants Gillette and Groves.

"Why funny?" James asked, sipping tea. It was a little too early for champagne, despite what the Admiral may think.

"The day of yer promotion ceremony," Sparrow replied dryly. "Commodore."

"It's also a day after he accepted a midshipman's commission, Admiral."

"Takes an entire day t'screw up enough courage?"

"It's as good a day as any," James shrugged. "I'm sure she doesn't mind, sir. It's her birthday in a week. This way, she gets to demand a more elaborate present out of his midshipman's pay."

"Hm. Should I give him an advance?"

"You want them to name their first child after yourself?"

"Aye, well, I should get somethin' out of today, just like everyone else," the Admiral stuck out his tongue. "I'm the only one who won't be seein' a promotion for years yet. If ever."

"There's not much else to be promoted _to_," James pointed out. "Admiral."

"Aye, aye. And I s'pose 'Admiral of the White' sounds better than 'Admiral of the Blue'. Right depressin', that title sounds."

"Besides, I doubt I myself will be accepting any further promotions." James said, frowning a little as Will somehow acquired a glass of champagne. He caught Groves' eye, and gestured slightly – the other man nodded, winked, and took two cups of tea off a manservant.

"An' why not?" Sparrow watched the exchange with amusement. Over the years, the threads of control were increasingly shared.

"Because a Rear Admiral of the Red will likely be assigned elsewhere, sir. Perhaps to the Indies. No need for any more Admirals around the Caribbean, with the Luck of God about." Honorifics, after so many years, still didn't come easily to James. The fact that he was, to put it crudely, fucking his commander, was probably part of the reason. At least with Bootstrap's tendency to address Sparrow as 'Jack' meant no eyebrows were raised when James occasionally slipped and did so…

Besides, James was beginning to suspect that the relationship was turning into an open secret. Certainly Groves and Gillette occasionally grinned (knowingly) when they saw James automatically go up to sit beside Sparrow in the Red Scabbard, or when the _Black Pearl_'s complement, of late, tended to consist of the _Dauntless_ and the _Interceptor_. People volunteered the Admiral's potential locations without being asked when they saw the Pirate Hunter (a moniker he had been unable to shed) wandering about with dispatches in hand. Turner – Turner had known all along, of course – lately the smirks had turned into playfully snide remarks.

It was only a mercy that William and Elizabeth seemed oblivious. James didn't want to be the one to corrupt youthful innocence.

"Aye, s'pose so," Sparrow chuckled, popping grapes into his mouth. "Come 'long." A slightly drunken flutter of fingers. Curious, James followed Sparrow away from the chatting crowd – then his eyes narrowed when Sparrow began to head towards the stables. All the hands and the marines on duty were likely in the process of sorting out the animals outside the fort. Which meant the stables were likely empty. Which meant that if Sparrow was taking them there…

"We'd be missed."

Sparrow stopped in the middle of the deserted courtyard, and looked briefly up at the sky, holding onto his hat. Lips curled into a grin, then his free hand unhooked his compass from his belt. "Here." He held it forward.

"Didn't you say it was cursed?"

"Present. I spoke t'the witch. Ye'd be protected for one try."

James took the battered compass, and fingered a corner. His lips quirked as he weighed it in his palm, rubbed a thumb over black lacquer, then he shook his head, offering it back to Sparrow.

An arched eyebrow, and confusion. "Don't want t'look?"

"No. Thanks, though."

"It took me _forever _t'think of a present, mate." A pout. "Why the change of heart?"

James hooked his fingers into his pockets, and looked down at polished black shoes. Overheard, a seagull called, its harsh cry partially swept away by fingers of wind that plucked at the hem of the heavy dress coat. Then he smiled. "I don't need to open it to know it'll point at you."

-fin-

--

Final Notes:

Okay, this AU turned out far, far longer than it was supposed to. Tt Self-control issue. Somehow, it managed to push 4 chapters past the expected limit without even having a decent amount of plot. :O I have learned not to try and restrict myself regarding future plans in final notes – since it never seems to work out. Ooa What will I do next? Since there appears to be a general terrible lack of Collared!Norrington fics, I think I'd play with that theme for a while… Anyway, here's a final bit of extra 'fic for "High Command":

"Jack, we are _not_ putting that up in the hall."

"Why?"

"I like it."

"You stay out of this, Turner. It's too… too… _informal_."

"Aye, well, I told the artist t'make it so, didn't I?"

"That he did."

"And you didn't stop the Admiral?"

"Well… thought it'd be more fun, Norrington. More interestin'."

"…"

"…get angry often, does he? At ye."

"…ye have no idea, mate. Get somebody t'put the portrait up in the hall."

"What about Norrington?"

"He's just gone off t'sulk for a bit. Seein' as that's me responsibility t'make things up t'him… Bootstrap, why don't ye take care of me schedule for the rest of the day?"

"Even the meetings?"

"_Especially_ the meetings. An' make sure Gillette and Groves are too busy t'come look for me for anythin', savvy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Heh. I'd be off, now."


End file.
